No, it’s the idea of Taylor Swift of which I’m a fan. She seems like a nice person. She seems like a good role model. She dresses modestly, she’s never been caught doing something inappropriate, and her overly-romantic song lyrics are generally wholesome.

In short, she’s the anti-Miley Cyrus. The anti-Britney Spears. The anti-Christina Aguilera. The anti-practically every other female musician.

But I now have a beef with her.

While on YouTube recently, I noticed a huge advertisement for her new music video. I clicked on it and watched it. Ninety-nine percent of those who watch it will likely think it’s a sweet, harmless, romantic video.

I am not within that 99%.

In the video, Taylor Swift meets a guy. They fall in love. They move in together. He proposes. They get married, have children and live happily ever after.

These events happen in the order I listed them.

Again, 99% will not notice anything wrong. And that, to me, is precisely the problem.

Jacob and Taylor sittin’ in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First comes love
Then comes marriage
Then comes a baby in a baby carriage

Remember that playground song from your childhood? I sure do. And I can’t help but notice there is no mention of living together before you’re married!

Why, given the fact much of her fan base are impressionable children and teenagers, did Taylor Swift choose to perpetuate the notion living together before marriage is how things are done? Clearly, she sees nothing wrong with it. And that, of course, is her choice. She’s free to live her life. But to write a song and make a video that romanticizes it? Really?

I guess I just expected more of Taylor Swift based on what I thought I knew of her. But the moral, I suppose, is none of us really know what goes on in the minds and lives of celebrities. The same man who gave us The Passion, Mel Gibson, is a lonely man with serious issues. The star of Hogan’s Heroes was a sex addict. And Sean Penn…well, I can’t really think of anything positive to say about Sean Penn. Him being a tool really isn’t a shocker.

Yes, I know, I am old-fashioned. Of course, old-fashioned is just another way of saying I have a moral compass of by which I abide. I’m old-fashioned and proud of it. And my Taylor Swift fandom has taken a serious hit.

So, as I did a few months ago, I am going to highlight some of my Twitter messages and explain them to all of you. Hero? No, I’m no hero. I’m just a man doing what he can to make the world a better place.

You’re welcome, people.

Chelsea’s wedding cost Bill & Hillary (Clinton) over $3 million. Gosh, that’s a lot of money for concealer. – Aug 2nd, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because Chelsea Clinton, like her mother, is incredibly unattractive and requires lots and lots and lots of concealer.

MNight Shyamalan turns 40 today. In a surprising twist, his birthday cake will have some of those trick candles on it. – Aug 6th, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because, while he has steered away from it in recent years, writer-director M. Night Shyamalan is famous for the plot twists at the end of his movies. And, in the realm of birthday surprises, nothing surpasses the “wait…these are trick candles!” twist when blowing out candles on your cake.

Ted Kennedy’s rolling over in his grave. I hope he doesn’t rise from the dead, steal a car and drive off a bridge. – Jan 19th, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: One, Scott Brown, a Republican, had just won the 2010 U.S. Senate special election to serve the remainder of the term vacated by the death of ol’ Teddy.

Two, in 1969 Kennedy “accidentally” drove a car off a bridge and into water. He fled the scene, leaving behind a passenger, Mary Jo Kopechne, who was shown to have died from drowning and not from the impact of the accident. In short, at the minimum, Kennedy left her to die.

There’s at least one upside to having a cell phone on the fritz. There’s zero chance I’ll be on the receiving end of a Mel Gibson tirade. – Jul 15th, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Mel Gibson had recently been in the news after his girlfriend recorded two particularly-unflattering phone conversations between herself and Mel. My unreliable cell phone, as well as the fact I do not know Mr. Gibson, likely precluded me from receiving similar phone calls from him.

Giving Obama a Nobel (Prize) so soon is like telling a girl you love her on the first date. Where’s the mystery? Play it cool, Nobel committee. – Oct 9th, 2009

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Last year, Barack Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize despite the fact he had yet to do anything remotely worthy of winning it. He won for his potential to do things.

In short, the Nobel committee is filled with guys who introduce women to their parents on the first date.

In all seriousness, I do believe my cat, Smokey, could win American Idol. His song, Mow Mow Mow, would wow the judges. – Jan 12th, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because, despite how horrible the contestants might be, there is no way a cat could win American Idol. Not even a cat as talented as mine.

That was a Great Dane on Oprah? Thank goodness. I thought I was seeing double. – Feb 23rd, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because Oprah Winfrey is attractive in the same way Michelle Obama and Chelsea Clinton are “attractive.” Which is, to say, attractive not in the least bit.

A pparently, spicy foods can boost metabolism. This might explain why you never see overweight fire eaters. – Mar 5th, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Numerous health articles list “spicy foods” as an easy addition to the lifestyle of anyone wishing to naturally boost their metabolism. As my own evidence of this, I cited the fact I have never seen an overweight fire eater on any “circus” scene in television or movies. Think about it.

‘Wise men say only fools Russian.’ I am not quite sure what Elvis was trying to say here, but it sounds pretty profound. – Apr 6th, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: The actual line is “only fools rush in.” However, as a child I thought the lyrics were “Russian.” And now, from this point forward, thanks to me, you will hear the same. [Insert evil laugh here]

You know, you can child proof your home, but they’re still gonna find a way to get inside. – May 3rd, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: “Child proofing” refers to the practice of making one’s home safe for children, not for making the home impenetrable to children.

Also, children, due to their small sizes, can more easily squeeze into small openings in your home’s exterior. Seriously, just try to keep them out. It’s nearly impossible.

Why do tech support people breathe heavily into the phone? It’s distracting & creepy. And it prevents them from hearing MY heavy breathing. – Jun 11th, 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because I don’t really breathe heavily when talking on the phone. In fact, I hold my breath when talking on the phone. This is why people think I’m such a good listener. I’m not listening — I’m unconscious.

If you haven’t done it already, follow me on Twitter. I promise to amuse and/or confound you on a daily basis.

Granted, I am the inquisitive sort by nature, but even if I wasn’t there are some things I just have to ask you:

Why do you insist on talking on your cell phone while standing in your front yard? And why must you do it shirtless?

Do shirts interfere with your phone’s reception? If so, may I inquire as to what brand you wear? Perhaps you should look into a different brand. I’ve heard good things about Dockers, but I have to imagine any cotton-blend shirt will suffice.

Does the person or persons you talk to on your phone know you are talking to them, shirtless, in your front yard? Are they, too, shirtless in their front yards? Are all of you part of some kind of organization that requires its members to call one another, shirtless, with women and children around? And if so, may I ask the point of such an organization?

What do you talk about while standing shirtless in your front yard? Do you talk about art? The weather? The high cost of cotton-blend shirts?

Do you come from a family who talks on the phone in their front yards? Is this a habit that is passed down from generation to generation? Am I to assume your great-great-great grandfather, since he lived in a time before phones, would stand shirtless in his yard while tying tiny messages to the feet of carrier pigeons?

Do the approximately two-dozen tattoos you have on your torso factor into your decision to be shirtless? Do they help your phone’s reception, or are they merely devices meant to scare away inquisitive neighbors who might inquire about your shirtless conversations for the entire neighborhood to witness against their will?

Because, if it’s the latter, you don’t know me very well. A myriad of tattoos will not prevent me from stopping in front of your house, rolling down my car window, and shouting in your general direction:

“Jeff Foxworthy called. He wants his ‘you might be a redneck’ joke back.”

What am I saying? Of course you don’t know me very well. We’re neighbors, not friends or acquaintances. And, clearly, that is likely for the best. You look like a man who puts little importance on personal hygeine. I, on the other hand, am a person who puts high importance on avoiding people who smell like an unholy mixture of death, tobacco, dog hair and Doritos.

My apologies. I seem to have gotten off track. The purpose of this letter was not to agitate, but to get inside the head of an inexplicably-shirtless man who insists upon carrying on phone conversations while standing in the middle of his front yard.

Before ending my letter, I would be remiss if I did not compliment, congratulate and enthusiastically thank you for your decision to wear pants. I think I speak for everyone with the ability to see that you wearing pants is a very good thing. Please continue to do so.

Sincerely,

That Guy Who Keeps Telling You To Put On A Shirt

So, I have decided to publish the comments I tried to leave there, here. Doesn’t that sound exciting? No. Well, I’m doing it anyway.

On Sunday, Jenny wrote about a strange dream she had. Among the oddities in this dream: She had a tattoo. On her face. On Monday, I tried, in vain, to leave the following comment:

As an expert dream interpreter, which I am for the purpose of this comment, I think it is quite clear what your brain is trying to tell you: Get a huge tattoo! On your face!!

On Monday, Jenny posted photos of some excitable dogs she met at Waffle House. On Tuesday, I attempted to leave the following comment:

This is a test comment. Had this been an actual comment, I would have written something dry or witty. For example: “What’s the deal with cucumbers? If they’re not going to be turned into pickles, what’s the point?” This has been only a test.

Also on Monday, Jenny wrote a post about her weekend trip to Hopeland Gardens in South Carolina. This morning, I tried to leave the following comment:

Well, I tried leaving comments Monday and Tuesday, but I kept getting errors. I bet this comment will have an error, too. Oh well. Since no one will read this, I might as well take the opportunity to get some things off my chest.

I am D.B. Cooper. It was I who, on November 24, 1971, hijacked that Boeing 727 aircraft and escaped with $200k in ransom money. I feel really bad about it. I also feel bad about losing all that money. I invested it, in cattle, but all their teeth fell out. At least that’s what I was told, I never really did get a clear answer.

Boy, I feel much better now. So glad no one will read this.

Thus endeth a blog post about literally nothing.

Co-worker: “Go easy on the wasabi.”

Me: “What?”

Co-worker: “Don’t eat too much. It’s hot.”

Me: “Challenge accepted!”

Co-worker: “Challenge? What challenge?”

Me: “Your wasabi challenge. I’ve accepted it. I’m going to eat an entire spoonful of the stuff.”

Co-worker: “I didn’t challenge you.”

Me: “Yes you did. ”

Co-worker: “No, I did not. Quite the opposite, in fact. I told you not to eat too much wasabi.”

Me: “Exactly, you dared me. Don’t dare someone not to do something if you don’t want them to do it. ”

Co-worker: “I didn’t dare you!”

Me: “Yes you did.”

Co-worker: “Fine. Eat the wasabi. It’ll be your funeral.”

Me: “Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me. Now, prepare to be amazed.”

[I eat a sizable helping of wasabi. Steam, more or less, comes out of my ears.]

Co-worker: “Well?”

Me: “I can’t believe you dared me to do that.”

Co-worker: “Serves you right. At least you’ve learned your lesson and won’t be doing that again.”

Me: “Challenge accepted.”

Hello, my fellow red-blooded males! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I just can’t enough of that fine-looking first lady, Michelle Obama. Isn’t she gorgeous?? And, to think, people out there have the AUDACITY to call her ugly!

If Michelle Obama is ugly, then my name’s not Mr. Larry Bell!

Would an UGLY person make it onto People Magazine’s list of world’s most beautiful people? Ha! I don’t think so.

Only the finest of the fine get to make it onto People’s “Most Beautiful” list. I defy anyone to find one example of an unattractive person making the list! Seriously, just one example. You can’t do it, can you? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

But don’t let indisputable facts alone convince you. Just look at the photo evidence! For instance, look at this photo to the left. Man, just look at those delicate features. Those eyes, that nose, those lips, those TEETH! Am I the only one here getting extremely turned on?

And those legs! Wow. Talk about legs that won’t quit. And, quite frankly, who would WANT them to quit? Not me, that’s for sure. And I’m not just saying that because guys are easy and I, again, am a guy. Seriously, I can prove it if I have to. No? Okay, but I totally could have proved I was a guy if I had to. It’s not like I’m some woman wearing a fake mustache or something! Haha.

(awkward pause)

I am not Michelle Obama!

Dear Unknown,

Thank you for your inquiry. The post you were directed to on SKOS (“My favorite quotes from my favorite writer (Hint: It’s me!)”) probably didn’t help you very much. Yeah, sorry about that. Please allow me to make amends by dropping some knowledge bombs onto your head.

Here’s the thing with guys: We don’t take hints very well. Much of the time, we don’t even realize you’re giving us hints. And when we do realize you’re giving us hints, we usually misinterpret them.

The following clip from Dumb & Dumber aptly explains the mindset of most guys:

Okay, so maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. All guys aren’t this bad.

But hear me now: If you want to clearly get your “no thanks” message across to a guy, there is one thing and one thing only that works 100% of the time.

Ignoring him.

Yes, you read correctly. You have to ignore the guy. Anything else you do or say could be interpreted as, “so you’re telling me there’s a chance?”

Whether you are talking about unwanted marriage proposals, date requests, text messages, e-mails, messages on your Facebook wall, or serenades outside your bedroom window at two in the morning, if you want them to go away you have to ignore them.

If a guy you just met proposes to you and you burst into tears, grab a nearby butter knife in a threatening “stay away from me psycho” manner, and run away screaming, the guy will not think: “Well, I guess that’s a no.” No, the guy will think:

“She was so excited, she ran home to tell her parents. And she grabbed that butter knife to keep away purse snatchers.”

You probably think I’m joking, but I’m dead serious. I’m a guy. This is how we think.

“No” is interpreted as “maybe.”

“Not right now” is interpreted as “ask again in five minutes.”

“I would rather die” is interpreted as “she’s already thinking about us growing old together.”

We men are idiots. We need you, nay, demand that you treat us as imbeciles. And much like insane people and children, you cannot reason with imbeciles. You can only ignore them. To do anything else is both cruel and inhuman.

So, if a guy calls you on the phone and asks you out on a date, don’t respond. Don’t hang up, because he will, again, assume you were so excited about his date request that you had to immediately call your family and friends. Just sit there, quietly.

If a guy texts you, e-mails you, or electronically contacts you in any way, whatever you do, don’t respond. Any response you make will be misinterpreted. Even a seemingly harmless response from you like “lol” will make him think he’s the world’s funniest man. And he’ll think you are a girl who, in the words of the poet Daughtry, is only after “a life full of laughter.”

If a guy asks you for something in person (be it your hand in marriage or your phone number), you must pretend you are in a staring contest. Don’t talk. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Just stay perfectly still and silent until the guy gets hungry or has to go to the bathroom. Then, when he leaves, you run away.

However, whatever you do, don’t look directly into the guy’s eyes when you are staring at him. He will interpret such a move as a sign of aggression. And if you happen to be wearing the color red, well, you might as well jump into oncoming traffic.

I hope I’ve helped you, Unknown. And if I have helped you, please, do ignore me. It’s the only way I’ll understand how much I’ve helped you.

Sincerely,

Kev

What did everyone think of my advice to our new friend? Gold, right? Yeah, I know. Gold.

“I’m not exaggerating,” noted Minaya. “Finding someone who wanted Jeff Francoeur was literally the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Earlier this week, Minaya, who in return will receive a plate of homemade brownies baked by First Presbyterian choir member Ethel Thompson, was notified by representatives of the recently-benched outfielder that Francoeur wished to be traded to a team that would play him more often.

“My first response, obviously, was ‘who in their right mind would be willing to trade for and insert into the starting lineup a corner outfielder with a .677 OPS,’” asked Minaya.

“I mean, sure, we did it. But we’re the Mets. That’s what we do.”

After receiving responses ranging from polite chuckles to laughter-induced heart attacks by the general managers for the other 29 MLB teams, Minaya knew he would have to think outside the box.

“When even the Kansas City Royals turn down the chance to acquire a former Atlanta Brave, you know you have your work cut out for you,” sighed Minaya.

After being turned down by every team in the Japanese League as well as Fidel Castro, who Minaya hoped might have been too preoccupied to know about Francoeur’s downward career spiral the past three years, a despondent Minaya was ready to throw in the towel.

That’s when Minaya overheard an intern talking about his cousin’s hernia, and how his church was going to need a replacement for their softball team.

“What position does your cousin play,” Minaya remembers asking the intern.

In addition to agreeing to cover all salary commitments, the Mets also sent First Presbyterian a baseball autographed by Luis Castillo and pitcher Oliver Perez.

“No, not a ball autographed by Oliver Perez,” Minaya clarified. “We actually sent them Oliver Perez.”

When asked for comment, a surprised Francoeur admitted, “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Still, the outfielder vowed he would embrace his new role and try to be the best teammate possible.

“And,” added Francoeur, “if all goes well, I might even be able to surpass that pesky .300 on-base percentage barrier.”

This was one of those times.

This was one of those times.

When I was a child taking his first step, my parents began to clap and cheer. It was all I could do not to stop in my tracks, turn around, and tell them to stop.

In grade school, I had to endure smiley-face stickers on all my papers. Excuse me, teacher lady, I didn’t do this for a sticker. I did it for the love of 2+2=4!

In high school, when I hit a home run in extra innings of a playoff game, I had to punch several teammates who had the audacity to try to “high five” me at home plate.

And on November 4, 2008, when someone tried to hand me an “I’m a Georgia Voter” sticker, I had to shout: “AGAIN with the stickers?! Doing my part to keep America from going to Hades in a hand basket is reward enough, thanks.”

Then I punched the person.

With all this in mind, I can’t tell you what a huge relief it is to no longer have more than a handful of people who read my blog!

Back in the old days, the period I sarcastically refer to as my blog’s “golden” days, I would get a few hundred visitors and a couple dozen comments every single day. What a drag!

Um, excuse me, but I have better things to do than read comments telling me how funny and witty I am. Take your validation and encouragement elsewhere!

And, ugh, don’t get me started on all the readers who took it upon themselves to tell others about my blog. Those “share the love” icons for Twitter and Facebook were meant as a joke, folks! I was being all ironic and stuff.

Thank goodness that’s all over. My inconsistent updates the past year and a half has successfully driven away most of my pesky readership. Now, it’s not uncommon for something I write, no matter how amazingly awesome it is, to receive zero comments.

Zero. Can you believe it? It’s like some kind of wonderful, amazing dream. I almost don’t want to write the word (“zero!”) for fear I will wake up and discover it never happened.

“What? You mean I didn’t really receive zero comments? I received 37?? No!!!”

Gosh, can you imagine? [Shudder]

Knowing barely anyone will read or comment on something I write is an amazing, amazing feeling. No, that doesn’t do it justice. It’s bliss. There’s just no other word for it. Bliss.

Now I know what Woody Allen feels every time he finishes production on a new movie. This constant feeling of bliss must explain how Woody has remained so handsome and manly after all these years.

I used to be envious whenever I came across a blog with barely any readership. Now, I don’t have to be envious. That blog is now mine. I’m doing it. I’m living the dream!

Frankly, I’m on Cloud Nine. And the only thing that could ruin this feeling, Heaven forbid, is receiving double-digit comments.

[Shudder]

By the way: Pay no attention to the cartoon below. That’s just more irony.

Hello, my fellow human beings! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I love to go camping in the woods. Is there anything as wonderful as driving out to some remote campsite for the weekend and ignoring those stupid “Caution: Bears in Area” signs?

The only thing I can think of that could possibly make the experience MORE enjoyable is smothering yourself in honey right before going to sleep at night!

Have you ever tried it? No?! My friends, you must try it this weekend, if not sooner. Take it from me, Bob Human, a camping enthusiast. It’s not like I’m some kind of bear in a disguise who is trying to eat you or something! Haha!

[awkward pause]

Seriously, I’m not a bear.

I’m just a guy who loves to camp and wants all of you, my fellow, tasty humans, to enjoy it as well!

The only thing I can think of that could make the camping experience even better, besides the obvious honey smothering, is stuffing fresh salmon down your pants. Oh, and tying your legs together with rope! Let’s see…what else? Leaving your pesty cell phone at home is another fun thing I highly recommend. So is not telling anyone where you are going!

I tell you, there is nothing that ruins an exciting  camping trip quite like having loved ones or park rangers checking in to make sure you’re alive. Those joykills! Let us have our fun. Am I right??

So, in conclusion, I urge all of you to go camping this weekend. And if you really want to have a great time, leave your cell phones at home, don’t tell anyone where you are going, cram salmon down your pants and smother yourself in honey! Oh, and be sure to start a campire. That’ll make it easier for us to bears to find…err, I mean the fire will scare the bears away.

I’m not a bear!

It started harmlessly enough. Usually, on a week night, I’ll go to bed anywhere between 10:30 and midnight. That first night, my brain wasn’t quite ready to shut down when midnight rolled around. So, I decided to watch “one more” episode of Arrested Development on Netflix. (Even though the show was canceled four or five YEARS ago, I had just recently discovered it.)

Once that episode was finished and my brain still wasn’t tired, I watched one more. Then another after that. Then another. Then another. Before I knew it, it was three o’clock in the morning.

Needless to say, I wasn’t going to the gym before work that day. Heck, I was barely able to do ANYTHING that day. Resisting the urge to rest my head on my suddenly comfortable-looking keyboard was a tall order.

But by that evening, a funny thing happened. I obtained a second (well, first to be more accurate) wind. Though my body was tired, my brain, which calls all the shots, was racing a mile a minute. So, I stayed up late again. In a span of two days, I watched the entire first season of Arrested. That second night, I didn’t go to bed until FOUR in the morning.

Obviously, a morning gym workout wasn’t in the cards that day either. And this trend continued for the rest of the week. One night, I didn’t fall asleep until five in the morning. The earliest I went to sleep was 2:30 or so. By the end of that week, I had watched all three seasons of Arrested Development, gone to the gym zero times, and gotten approximately twenty-five hours of shut eye.

The cycle stretched into week two. Instead of Netflix, I chose to be “productive” with my early-morning time. And by productive I mean “make numerous design tweaks to my blog, which barely anyone even visits these days.” I tried to read, but my brain would have none of it. “How dare you try to cram knowledge into me,” my brain seemed to say. “Trifle with me again and I’ll NEVER let you sleep!”

Once something like this has begun, it’s difficult to stop it. My body had gotten used to exercising anywhere from four to twelve times a week. An entire week of doing barely more than walking made me feel tired and lethargic. You add to this the little matter of averaging three to five hours of sleep each night, when you’re accustomed to seven or eight, and you have a recipe for one incredibly crappy excuse for a Kev.

So, tonight, I’m breaking the cycle. It’s almost nine o’clock. I am, naturally, very tired. Therefore, I’m going to bed. I’m not going to even give my brain the opportunity to shift into overdrive. I’m going to bed early, and then I’m waking up early. I’m going to FORCE myself, no matter how tired I might be, to go to the gym in the morning.

If I can do this, everything will fall into place. The workout will give me energy for my day, and it will also insure I wear down at a reasonable hour tomorrow night. Then I just have to repeat these steps for a few more days. Then I will be back to normal.

And, if my brain choose not to cooperate, I’ll just have to lobotomize myself. Hear that, brain? You better play nice tonight or else!

Following-morning update: Well, the going to bed early plan worked. I got a good night’s sleep. However, I couldn’t drag myself out of bed for the gym. I’ll be going after work and then I’ll try it again in the morning.

Hello, my fellow U.S. citizens! As a regular Joe who is most definitely not the president wearing a fake mustache meant to disguise his identity so he can manipulate your trust, I thought I would share something that’s been on my mind.

Call me overly patriotic, but I think we should all stop our bipartisan bickering and support that handsome Barack Obama guy!

His critics on the right like to point out all the things I haven’t he hasn’t accomplished since taking office, but what about the the things he has accomplished?

Who was the first sitting president to appear on a daytime talk show?

That’s right, Obama!

Who spent countless hours and energy in an attempt to win his hometown city of Chicago the 2016 Olympics and almost succeeded in doing so?

Obama!

Who sued the state of Arizona for foolishly thinking it had the right to create illegal-immigration laws for itself?

OBAMA!

Who blessed each and every taxpayer with the opportunity of giving for their country thanks to his numerous tax-funded stimulus packages that [crosses fingers behind back] fixed our ailing economy?

OooBAMA!

Who won the Nobel Peace Prize for his numerous…um, hmmm…actually, I’m not sure why I he won the Nobel. He must have done something grand, though. The Nobel committee doesn’t give prizes to just anyone.

OBAMA!

Who has made it his personal mission to unburden women who have human-like parasites growing inside them?

OBABABABAMA!

Who, except for those occasions where someone has the audacity to disagree with him, has single-handedly rid the world of racism?

ObbbbbbBAMA!

Look, I’m just an average citizen with a glorious mustache who can’t get enough of the Barackster! The Barackinator! The Barackattack!

Come on, everybody. Repeat after me!

O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A! O-BAM-A!

[long pause]

I am not Barack Obama.

But if one employee accidentally sends an e-mail to every employee in the company, we turn into imbeciles the likes of which the world has never seen.

Some employee in California will write a simple e-mail. She’ll pick a distribution list to send it to, but inadvertently picks the wrong one. Oh no. She’s sent her e-mail to thousands of employees all over the world!

I receive the e-mail. I sigh. Why? Because I know what’s going to happen next.

A few seconds later, someone else, an employee in Iowa perhaps, will write an e-mail response that asks, “Why did I receive this?” But instead of simply replying to the employee in California who sent it, the employee in Iowa clicks the “Reply to All” button.

Everyone who received the California e-mail now receives the Iowa e-mail.

Seconds later, an employee in Alabama sends an e-mail that simply states, “Please remove me from this distribution list.” She, too, replies to all.

Dozens of more employees all over the country send similar replies.

“What is this?”

“Please remove me.”

“Was I supposed to receive this e-mail?”

“Did we used to date? What’s your sign? Are you hot?”

This goes on for several minutes. But then it gets worse. Eventually, people who have been receiving all these responses, as well as the original e-mail that started it all, become irked. They’re tired of receiving all these pointless e-mails. They’re tired of having their inboxes filled with messages that do not apply to them. They’re tired of the insanity!

And so, they do what any stupid rational person would do. They click “Reply to All” and write an e-mail that says something along the lines of:

“What is wrong with you people?? Don’t you realize you’re replying to everyone? Just ignore it!”

Dozens, possibly hundreds, of like-minded employees send similar replies to everyone over the next few minutes.

“We get it! Stop replying to all!”

“Just ignore the e-mails people.”

“The e-mail was sent by mistake. Replying to all is only making it worse.”

“Are any of you hot? What are your signs? I’m so lonely.”

At this point, ten minutes has gone by and I have received approximately 300 e-mails. My head long ago began to throb, but I know it’s only going to get worse.

Soon, “helpful” employees begin to send replies informing the people who have been telling others to “stop replying to all” are, themselves, replying to all.

“You guys realize you’re only making it worse by sending replies telling people to stop replying, right?”

Dozens of such e-mails begin to go out into the world. Eventually, people begin to send replies to these people informing them they are making things worse by replying to all and telling people who are replying to all not to reply to all. And a few minutes later, people begin replying to these people.

As you can see, it’s a never-ending cycle.

At some point, people begin to have fun with the situation. Amongst the “please remove me” and “stop replying to all” and “stop telling people to stop replying to all” and “stop telling people who are telling people who are telling people…” madness, people begin to leave humorous replies.

“If I’m reading all these e-mails correctly, I think the consensus is NOT to reply to all. But I’m not sure. Let’s have a survey. Just reply to all with your thoughts.”

“Anyone who replies to all should be immediately terminated. Myself included.”

“Please stop the madness. My Blackberry is vibrating so much people are starting to think I’m a pervert.”

“I might as well take this opportunity to see if anyone is interested in purchasing a 1990 Chevy Blazer. $1,000 or your best offer.”

However, this jovial turn of events is quickly forgotten once a second wave of “please remove me” and “stop replying to all” messages hit our inboxes.

One hour and several thousand e-mails later, things begin to quiet down. Soon, only one or two e-mails every minute or so are sent out. Later, only one or two e-mails every five minutes. Finally, mercifully, they stop completely.

I don’t believe this would irritate me quite so if not for the fact this exact same thing happened two months ago. And the same thing happened about a year before that, too.

They say those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Well, I have learned from history. But on days like today I’m forced to repeat it anyway.

Sigh.

Another e-mail just arrived. Employees on the west coast must be returning from lunch.

Lord, give me strength.

“The huge success of the movies, after the huge success of our original theme park ride, shows us people clearly cannot get enough of the ‘Pirates’ franchise,” explained Disney spokesperson Andy Dale.

“A new theme park ride based on the theme-park-inspired movies was a no-brainer.”

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Movie Ride will let patrons experience what it’s like to watch the “Pirates” films in a realistic, modern-day movie theatre.

“It’s an immersive, larger-than-life adventure that is so realistic, you’ll almost swear you were in a real theatre watching a real movie,” exclaimed Dale.

Upon entering the indoor ride, guests will get in line to buy their “movie ticket.” Once they have their ticket, they will go to a large lobby filled with dozens of arcade games and a giant concession stand. Later, they will give their ticket to an usher and sit down in a comfortable, theatre-styled chair that contains — not one, but — two cup holders. After the lights dim, a realistic-looking movie curtain will open. Guests will then be treated to twenty minutes of previews for fictional movies starring Tim Allen.

Then the real fun begins.

“We invested more than $500 million in the research and development of the next generation of Audio-Animatronics,” said Dale. “The robotics used in the original ‘Pirates’ ride was improved by leaps and bounds. The result is a Captain Jack Sparrow that looks exactly like Johnny Depp. An Elizabeth Swann that looks exactly like Keira Knightly. A Norrington that looks exactly like…whoever it is that portrayed Norrington.”

The results will be breathtaking.

A “movie” featuring Disney’s state-of-the-art Audio-Animatronics will reenact classic scenes from the three “Pirates of the Caribbean” films. Patrons will be treated to voice actors who sound very similar to the real actors who portrayed the characters in the films.

“The guy who voices the Jack Sparrow robot sounds like he could be Johnny Depp’s brother,” beamed Dale.

Only the character Will Turner, portrayed by actor Orlando Bloom in the three films, will forgo Audio-Animatronics in favor of an actual human being. Bloom will reprise his role for Pirates of the Caribbean: The Movie Ride, and he will also serve as an usher.

“Work is work,” explained Bloom.

Good people, hear me now: It’s not my fault.

Lest any of you forget, I inherited the numerous issues currently plaguing our dear island. I, your dear and flawless leader, am merely a victim. My predecessor has been, and always will be, responsible for our island’s plights, whether they technically happened during his time in power or not.

Under who’s watch did our food shortage begin? Under my predecessor’s, of course. It was he who sat in the mighty bamboo chair when the rain gods refused to cry on us for four straight moons. Clearly, the rain gods did not approve of his political platform.

My critics like to point out how, once I became ruler, I only made our food shortage worse by giving half our harvest, as well the first born son of everyone who opposed me, to the god that lives inside our island’s volcano.

I suppose my critics would prefer we all burn in a stream of molten lava!

Besides, if my predecessor had not refused to even acknowledge the volcano god’s existence, much less his almighty lava powers, I would not have had to give him all our precious, precious food.

Our ongoing war with those who inhabit “The Forbidden Zone” is another hot-button-shaped issue. My critics like to dwell on the fact I have not ended the war like I promised I would do. How quickly these critics forget I wouldn’t have had to make promises I had no intention of keeping if my predecessor had not retaliated when “The Others” attacked us with bows and arrows while we were sleeping soundly beneath the shelter we built with debris from our fallen plane.

Had he simply let bygones be bygones, this war would have ended before it even started. Plus, with the large number of castaways who surely would have been killed due to our enemies’ misinterpretation of “we surrender” as an aggressive call to arms, our current shortage of food wouldn’t be nearly as daunting.

The sinking of the rescue boat we built, as well as the lost lives of the four castaways who were manning the boat, is another issue for which my critics like to point blame my way.

What they conveniently forget is the “let’s build a boat so we can be rescued” idea happened long before I came to rule. The rescue boat was my predecessor’s pet project. It was his debacle. I was simply the person who happened to be in charge for its first, and last, voyage.

Critics like to say the boat would not have sank had my devoted followers not “borrowed” essential pieces of the boat in an effort to build a statue of my likeness, but these are deceitful lies. My followers found those boat-like items in the jungle, next to a pineapple tree. To doubt their truthfulness is to defile the memories of those four brave men who shouted, “who stole the rope that was holding together the bow and stern?!” before drowning at sea.

I could go on, but I believe I’ve made my point. Nothing that has happened during these past twenty-one moons is my fault, and neither I nor my allies on the island council deserve to be held accountable, err, I mean responsible.

The poison mushrooms incident…

The using of the last flare in our flare gun when I couldn’t find my pineapple because it was too dark…

The giving of the OTHER half of our harvest to the “giant hole in ground” god…

The bailout of Banana Street…

Aren’t we all just a little tired of the blame game? I know I am.

Besides, none of it’s my fault.

I’m sorry, did I say treat? I meant punish. You best leave me a few comments this time, or else I’ll have no choice but to turn this into a trilogy.

1

Headline: “How to make extra cash”
What the article is actually about: Selling items on the Internet.
What I, for the purpose of this post, thought after reading the headline: I definitely didn’t think it had anything to do with the world’s oldest profession, I’ll tell you that! [awkward laugh]

2

Headline: “Lesbian teen awarded $35k”
What the article is actually about: A rural school district that canceled its prom rather than allow a lesbian student to attend with her girlfriend agreeing to pay $35,000 to settle a discrimination lawsuit.
What I, for the purpose of this post, thought after reading the headline: So now we’re PAYING people to be gay??

3

Headline: “Most massive star ever seen”
What the article is actually about: The discovery of a huge ball of brightly burning gas that may be hundreds of times more massive than the sun.
What I, for the purpose of this post, thought after reading the headline: Is Rosie O’Donnell technically a “star” anymore?

Let’s see those comments, people.

Riiiight.

So, let me get this straight:

“JOHNSON!,” your boss shouts. “Are you looking at Playboy on your company computer?!?”

“No boss,” you say. “This is Playboy’s new, non-nude, ’safe for work’ website.”

“HAHAHAHA,” your boss laughs. “My mistake, Johnson. So, you weren’t looking at pornography on your company computer. You were just looking at questionable material on your company computer when you were supposed to be working.”

“You got it, boss.”

“You’re fired, Johnson.”

[And Scene]

(Insert segue here.)

People are turning into zombies! Or, at least they were in my dream last night.

I was in a nondescript city for some kind of convention. With me were a wide assortment of people from my past and present. All my friends from high school were there. My friends from church were there. One of my brothers was there. And a certain woman, [name omitted], was there.

We were all in a building when things began to go awry.

And by “awry” I mean “one of my friends from high school was attacked by a zombie.”

Chaos ensued.

People in my dream reacted the way you would expect people to react when trapped in a building in a nondescript city whose citizens are turning into zombies.

People panicked. Some tried to make a run for it. Some people just hid in closets, which was probably a wise move.

Me? Well, somehow I had a futuristic gun of some sort. It could kill zombies if I shot them in the face. Unfortunately, the gun wasn’t always reliable. Much like an old car you have trouble starting, this gun didn’t always shoot its laser when I pushed its button. Because of this, I distinctly remember being angry with my gun on numerous occasions.

My goal in the dream was to keep all my friends together and safe. However, several people, including [name omitted], somehow got separated from the group. I led a search party to find [name omitted], but that of course led to everyone in my search party being killed by zombies.

All of us who remained barricaded ourselves in a room. It was only a matter of time before we would be overtaken.

My gun was no longer with me, but I don’t recall what happened to it. Most likely, I became so disgusted with it I threw it away. As we were now trapped like rats with no weapons to speak of, this was a regrettable decision on my part.

A friend then handed me a handwritten note my mom had written me. Apparently, the zombie outbreak was happening everywhere. How this friend obtained this letter defies all logic, but then again we’re talking about a dream in which I am fighting zombies.

After reading the note, I began to cry. Then I woke up.

Things I learned from this dream:

1 Never throw away your futuristic gun, no matter how unreliable it is, when the world is being attacked by zombie-like creatures.

2 If you’re ever in a nondescript city with [name omitted], don’t let her wander off when zombies begin their attack. It will only lead to the death of everyone in your search party.

3 Just like you should never cry in front of a woman, never cry in front of a zombie. They will lose all respect for you. Granted, my dream ended before any zombie saw me crying, but I’m pretty sure their reaction would have been one of disdain.

And yes, this was my actual dream last night. If you’re wondering what I ate last night, that had nothing to do with it. The mushrooms that grow in my backyard are perfectly safe.

Kevin Dugan of The SKOS Institute feels your pain.

“Every month, there is a new ‘must have’ phone released to the public. It’s insane. A new ‘Android’ phone comes out every week, it seems. You can’t throw a rock out your window without hitting someone gushing about their new iPhone. Even Microsoft is coming out with the ‘Windows Phone 7′ later this year. It’s too much. It’s just too, too much.”

“That is why,” Dugan continued, “we have decided to end the madness and design our own phone.”

The iSKOS 47 Series Frankenstein Phone took the SKOS team almost two whole hours to plan, design, create and build.

“We have literally never worked that hard, or long,  in our lives,” noted Dugan.

Built with parts made from approximately three dozen cell phones “borrowed” from co-workers who made the mistake of placing their phones where Dugan had easy access to them, the iSKOS47SFP is a sturdy phone constructed to last years, if not decades.

“And you wouldn’t believe how much duct tape we used,” added Dugan.

However, where the phone really shines is its features. The secret? Simplicity.

“Most phones give you way, way more than the average user needs,” explained Dugan. “What’s the point of having hundreds of features and access to thousands of ‘apps’ when you only need the essentials?”

Want premium call quality? The iSKOS47SFP has it. Users have the ability to call Dugan (and only Dugan) with the iSKOS47SFP.

“Why would anyone need to call anyone else,” asked Dugan.

The same is true with text messaging. The iSKOS47SFP offers a touch-screen interface that allows users to type text messages to Dugan at lightning speeds.

Want web browsing? Of course you do. The iSKOS47SFP gives users a web experience unlike any other. With access to — not one, but — two websites, specialkindofstupid.com and Dugan’s Twitter account, iSKOS47SFP’s joy factor is unmatched.

“The iSKOS47SFP lets users interact with me at a level never before thought possible. It truly is a technological miracle,” beamed Dugan.

An added, much-appreciated, bonus is the iSKOS47SFP’s immunity to the antenna-reception issues that have plagued Apple’s iPhone 4. This is provided, of course, the user holds the phone the same way Dugan holds it.

“I hold it with my middle finger and pinky,” explained Dugan.

With a 12 megapixel camera designed to only take photos of Dugan, a music player designed to only play songs performed by Dugan and a calendar designed to only accept date reminders relevant to Dugan, the iSKOS47SFP is your one-stop-shop for all your Dugan needs.

“If you’re like me and you just can’t get enough me, this is the phone for you,” promised Dugan.

“Oh, and you’re welcome, people.”

To pre-order the iSKOS 47 Series Frankenstein Phone, leave a comment below. The iSKOS47SFP bumper case costs $30 and is not included.

For example, Yahoo’s homepage has a headline entitled, “What your desk says about you.” Now, I knew the article was going to be about how a disorganized desk indicates you are disorganized to others (and other such things), but in my head I thought:

“What’s that no good son of a gun been saying about me?? It’s a lie, I tell you. A lie!”

For the amusing (to me) headline, “Wrong way to cover a sneeze,” I thought:

“Well, if grabbing a stranger’s jacket and using it as a tissue is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

When I read the “Twist in missing scientist case” headline, I thought:

“If the twist is the scientist was a ghost the entire time, I totally saw it coming. In your face, M. Night Shyamalan!”

The “Obama hits new low in poll” headline made me get creative:

“I am totally going to make ‘that is like kicking an Obama when he is down’ the new, hip catchphrase. No one will talk about kicking downed horses anymore. I’m bringing silly metaphors into the 21st century!”

When I gazed upon the insipid “Is Kim Kardashian dating NFL’s Austin?” headline, I thought:

“That is incredibly uninteresting.”

(Hey, they can’t all be winners.)

For the trying-to-be-helpful headline, “How to avoid underripe fruit,” I thought:

“Ask the fruit how old it is. Duh.”

The career-finance headline “5 crucial tips for getting ahead” made me think:

“Follow the Headless Horseman around. Maybe he’ll give you one of his trophies.”

“Signs of fear in a company,” another headline from Yahoo, made me think:

“When the cleaning lady turns on the vacuum cleaner, everyone either screams or passes out.”

The “Scientist believes gravity doesn’t exist” headline made me theorize the following:

“However, Scientist totally believes in global warming. ‘Al Gore’ is a god,’ exclaimed the scientist after putting on a hat made out of tinfoil.”

I’ll see if I can find any others. Have YOU had any amusing thoughts after reading any headlines?

“I desperately need to do laundry. These (ones I’m wearing) are the last clean clothes I own. I’m having to wear boxers like a caveman!”
- Yours truly, this past Saturday

Comparing things to the days of cavemen is something I do fairly often. This past weekend, it was boxers. Seriously, now that boxer briefs exist, why haven’t boxers and briefs ceased to be? Is it nostalgia? If so, nostalgia is stupid.

Last Thanksgiving, I dismissed my mom’s recommendation that I make my green bean casserole using canned green beans in the following manner:

“CANNED green beans?! Do you WANT to have Thanksgiving the way cavemen used to have it?”

One time, in college, I asked someone if I could borrow a pencil. When they handed me a #2 pencil instead of a mechanical one, I responded:

“Thanks, but do you really expect me to take this computer test like a caveman?!”

When someone asks me if I’m on MySpace, I ask them if I look like a prehistoric man. If a waitress tells me they only serve Pepsi products, I ask her if the restaurant deliberately chose to only cater to cavemen, or if it was just an unfortunate accident. If I’m camping, and someone asks me to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together, I ask them if they would also like me to set traps for dinosaurs.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

I’m funny.

Just like a caveman.

Unofficially, I need to find a new phone before my current one explodes or eats itself or does something similarly catastrophic. The thing is a ticking time bomb. I’m completely serious. It scares me. [Help.]

Numerous people have told me it is taking too long for me to pick a new phone. “Just go buy an iPhone,” said my brother, an iPhone lover. “What do you have against iPhones,” asked my mom, also an iPhone lover.

“Make up your mind and buy a phone already,” suggested one friend. When I responded by saying I was doing my due diligence, this same quick-witted friend informed me that I’ve “passed due diligence and are quickly careening into indecisiveness!”

Another friend asked me if I was this indecisive about everything, and if I’d be this way when deciding whether or not to propose to whomever turns out to be “the one”?

Very funny, people. I’ll have you know I’m the most decisive person on the planet! (Stop laughing. Why are you laughing?)

The reason for this is I usually think through scenarios long before they happen. And when they happen, if they happen, I already know how I want to react.

For example, do you know what you would say if you were suddenly in the presence of Barack Obama? ‘Cause I do. “Where is your teleprompter,” I would ask him. Then I would say, “boom…roasted” before turning and walking away.

You see, I’ve already thought about this. The rest of you might stand there awestruck, trying to think of just the right thing to say (or just the right blunt object to throw at him), but not me. I already know.

Okay, I know some of you are probably confused.

If I think through scenarios before they happen, if I really know what I want and am decisive, why haven’t I already figured out which phone to buy?

Excellent question. You see, well, before my phone began to die its slow death, I…well, never gave even a passing thought to what cell phone I wanted next.

I am not a phone person.

I. AM. NOT. A. PHONE. PERSON.

I dislike, with a passion, talking on the phone. It irritates me. Not counting immediate members of my family, there have been exactly three people during my lifetime that I actually enjoyed talking to on the phone.

Three.

For anyone else, if I’m on the phone with you for longer than two minutes, I’m looking outside a window during our conversation, contemplating whether or not to drop my phone and run to freedom. Where do I imagine I will run to? Oh, I don’t know. Someplace magical. Someplace without phones.

But I digress.

In the four years since I last purchased a phone, technology has changed by leaps and bounds. It is absolutely insane the things phones can do these days. Can they stop time? Can they shoot lazers? Can they massage my shoulders? Heck, it wouldn’t surprise me if they could. These phones seem capable of practically anything.

And given the changes, and given the fact I haven’t been following the phone fads the past four years, perhaps now you all can understand the need for my due diligence. I need time to sort through all the information!

No?

You still need convincing?

“What? Go home with you? What kind of robot do you think I am?!”

Okay, imagine, if you will, a guy who is waking up from a coma. He’s been asleep for years and years and years. And during that time, the female gender ceased to exist. Now, there only exists men…and robots dressed up as women.

Now, imagine asking this recently-comatose patient to go out and pick a mate. It would be tough wouldn’t it? He’d need time to process all the changes that have taken place since he was last out there on the dating scene.

What color robot would he like? How tall would he like his robot? Does he want a robot made in China or America?

Does he want a robot with super strength? Such a skill would come in handy if they ever crossed paths with a mugger, but what happens if the robot ever malfunctions and starts shouting “INTRUDER ALERT” when he steps out of the bathroom?

Now, obviously, if such a scenario actually took place the coma guy would choose the robot with the best legs. The rest wouldn’t matter. But for the purpose of this analogy, let’s pretend the guy would need at least a week or two to figure out what he wanted.

That’s where I am right now.

I am a recently-awakened coma patient who has discovered women have been replaced with robots.

Quite honestly, if you look at it that way, you all should be happy if I ever buy a new phone.

Why hasn’t someone figured out a way to plant GPS devices inside socks so we can finally learn what happens to them when they inevitably disappear?

Why, if I want to buy a cell phone that has a high-quality camera (high enough quality that I have no need for a real camera), do I have to buy a phone with all sorts of extra gizmos, gadgets and applets that require me paying $15 a month extra to AT&T for a “data plan” I’ll never use? I don’t need Internet access. I don’t need GPS. I don’t need games. I just need a durable phone that can handle calls, send and receive text messages, and possesses a 5 megapixel (or higher) camera with flash! What’s so hard about that?!

Why, if I’m not getting weird (to me) veggies like cucumbers and carrots on my sandwich at Subway (even though I’m entitled to them at no extra charge), can’t I get extra tomatoes or provolone cheese without paying more money? Work with me on this, Subway, or I will start loading up my sandwiches with every vegetable you offer. And then I’m going to go straight to one of your trash bins and pick off the veggies I don’t like. I’ll do it, too. Just try me.

Why doesn’t a barber/stylist, after cutting your hair, remove the loose hair from your earlobes? Seriously, you get a brush to remove the loose hair from my neck and face. Some of you even wash my hair afterward to do a more thorough job of hair removal. You do all that, but you don’t bother dealing with the loose hair on my earlobes? You know it’s there. You can see it. Plus, you get haircuts yourselves, so you know this is a problem. Help a guy out! Or, at the very least, go get me a cotton swab or damp towel so I can take care of it myself. I’ll be deducting this oversight from your tip, of course.

“No, I will not cut down my bushes. They serve a valuable purpose.”

Why do neighbors with pets tend to think neighbors without pets are somehow responsible for their flea/tick problems? “No, I will not trim back the bushes that separate our properties. I have a swimming pool and I appreciate the privacy these bushes provide me. However, I will gladly, again, sprinkle sevin-dust on these bushes and around the border of my property. Oh, but don’t misunderstand. I’m doing this for my benefit. If your dogs have fleas, I’d like to keep said fleas off my property. Hope you have a great week. Talk to you next Saturday, when, inevitably, we will have this exact same conversation.”

Why can some people not understand the notion that if you’re cold you can always put something on, but if you’re hot there is only so much you can take off? This is especially true in the work environment. It’s 100 degrees outside. You’re cold because the A/C is set to 74 degrees? You know what? Tough. Your “cold” issue can easily be remedied with a blanket or hot cup of coffee. Our “it’s blistering hot” issue can only be remedied by lowering the A/C or wearing bathing suits to work. Hmmm. That’s a tough one. If only it was obvious which party was being unreasonable.

“No, YOU are an embarrassment. Next question.”

Why does Obama still have that arrogant, pompous demeanor every time he speaks? His continuing to do so, after all that’s happened the past year and a half in office, is akin to the school bully continuing to strut around campus after all the nerds had formed an alliance, beaten him up, stripped him naked in the middle of the cafeteria and forced him to drink his own tears as fellow students (and even teachers) recorded the event and posted it on YouTube.

I have never shouted “let’s get this party started” after entering a room. I have, however, thrown blunt objects at people who have done this.

This has been mentioned here on my blog before, but given the post’s topic it bears repeating: I have never eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Madness, you say? Well, what do you say after I tell you peanut butter is one of my favorite things; jelly/jam is something I rarely eat, but find tasty; and bread is something I’ve probably eaten a billion times during my lifetime? Now how does the revelation strike you?

No, I will not submit to psychological testing.

I remembered this particular tidbit after reading a recent post from Jenny about the movie: I have never seen It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s true. I’ve not seen it, not once. Sure, I know of it. And I know the general plot since it’s been referenced or mimicked in everything from Saturday Night Live to Steve Urkel’s Family Matters. But, I’ve never actually seen it.

And while we’re on the topic of classic movies everyone in the world except yours truly has seen, I should add I have never seen Gone with the Wind. Even though I dated a woman for 13 months who claimed it was her all-time favorite movie, I’ve never seen it. Even though I once bought said girlfriend the Four-Disc Collector’s Edition of the movie, I’ve never seen it.

And yes, I’m suddenly thinking the same as you: I might not be as good of a boyfriend as I think I am.

“The Internet is over. Just like my relativity.”

I have never declared the Internet to be a fad whose time is over. But then again, I’m not Prince. People may scoff at the tiny one’s hilarious proclamation. And yes, I too have once upon a time poked fun at the little man. Just remember: He’s been right before. Didn’t we all party like it was 1999 back on New Year’s Eve 1998? Yes. Yes, we did. Prince nailed that one.

I have never laughed hysterically upon hearing the news a judge has sentenced Lindsay Lohan to jail for 90 days. Okay, that one is a lie. I totally laughed. I even Twittered about it.

I have never talked to a dog or cat expecting to receive an answer. I have, however, talked to a dog and cat for the purpose of making people around me think I was expecting an answer. Nothing says “Leave me alone, people, I’m reading a book” quite like “And what’s your name? … Meow? … Why, that’s a funny name!”

“No, Baby. I’m not sick. This is just my fish face. Does it make you hot?”

Granted, only someone as certifiably insane as Nicolas Cage would have ever done this, but I have never used an animal’s sexual practices to determine whether or not I will eat it. Oh sure, all of us at one time or another have thought about how fish fertilize their eggs when we are biting into a fork full of halibut (he writes, sarcastically), but leave it up to ol’ Nic to seriously ponder such things and have them dictate his diet.

Of course, this does beg several questions. Among them: Years from now, when Cage is giving his son the “birds and bees” talk, will he literally be talking about birds?

She might not want to go to bed early tonight (Hannah Montana herself, Miley Cyrus, is going to be on TV tonight to, once again, explain she is not a prostitute despite the fact she is wearing only high heels and a scarf), but turning off the television and going to bed early is clearly the best thing for her.

“Not so fast,” shouts resident patriarch, Kevin O’Bama.

(Yes, it’s an Irish name. Why do you ask?)

You see, O’Bama has a better idea. Rather than make the young child, against her will, go to bed early, O’Bama chooses to give the child 787 billion bags of candy.

“I call it a candy stimulus package,” boasts the proud imbecile.

“By feeding the girl sugar, her energy level will skyrocket. Then she can stay up and watch that wholesome Miley Cyrus. Later, after her parents are asleep, she can watch Cinemax if she wants. And this momentum will surely carry over to her schoolwork tomorrow.

“I see no downside to this plan.”

The downside, of course, is eventually you are going to run out of candy. And then, inevitably, the sugar crash will happen.

Hi, I’m Kevin. Founder of this here blog and an all-around swell guy.

When the stock market was crashing in late 2007, all of 2008 and early 2009, I decided to be greedy. As Warren Buffet advises, “Be fearful when others are greedy…be greedy only when others are fearful.”

And that’s what I did. I saw the declining stock prices as giant, neon “For Sale” signs. As others were selling, selling, selling; I was buying, buying, buying.

And then Barack Hussein Obama stepped into the White House.

I knew, based on his teleprompter-aided campaign speeches, the man had plans that would be horribly, horribly, horribly bad for the stock market (and the economy as a whole). Still, while stock prices continued to slide, I continued to buy. All the way up to March of 2009.

That is when the market began to turn around. Heck, it didn’t just turnaround. It skyrocketed upward.

In short, others were becoming greedy. And that was my cue to become fearful.

I knew, as many others knew, the turnaround wasn’t natural. The economy hadn’t recovered! No, it’d simply had billions and billions of government (i.e. taxpayer-funded) dollars pumped into it.

Had unemployment improved? No, it had not. Had consumer confidence improved? Nope. Had consumer spending gone up? Not so much. So why did the Down Jones go up almost 5,000 points from March 2009 to April 2010?

Because it had been fed giant bags of candy.

People began buying houses again because an $8k-tax-credit carrot was dangled in front of them. Other stimulus programs pumped government money into the economy. The result? Things, on the surface, seemed to be getting better. And, since the stocket market is packed with Chicken Littles, the market leapt upward.

Alas, the giant bags of candy are running out.

The $8k incentive for home buyers ended on April 30. What happened in May? Well, naturally, the sales of new homes fell to an all-time low. Anyone who believes this is an aberration is coo-coo for cocoa puffs.

Slowly but surely, other stimulus programs are ending. Others had already ended and their effects are just now beginning to wear off. The economy is running out of giant bags of government candy and the stock market has recently begun reflecting this reality. The sugar rush is over. It’s time for the crash.

I foresee this going one of two ways:

The stock market will go down again. Possibly way down. Experts would call this a “double-dip recession.” It will be hard for everyone, but eventually we’ll get through it. And as a result people will learn the hard life lessons they need to learn. They’ll become more fiscally responsible. They’ll begin to curb their spending. They’ll start emergency funds. They’ll stop relying so much on credit. They’ll stop buying houses too big for their needs and too expensive for their budgets. They’ll stop expecting the government to save them when they make stupid, idiotic, inexplicable decisions.

Or, the government will give us more giant bags of candy.

I’m predicting the latter.

So, I have decided to list some quirks and random tidbits about myself. Some of these I may have mentioned before in writing, but most should be new to all of you. And, since these are about me, this post is assured of being both informative and awesome.

You’re welcome, people.

I pop my knuckles. And my back. And my neck. I’ve done the former since I was in elementary school. I picked up the latter two in high school so I could impress the ladies.

I wear my wallet in my right back pocket. On the handful of occasions I have worn it in my left pocket, it feels as though aliens have invaded my pants.

Whenever I eat a meal or a snack, afterward I have to wash my hands, splash my face with water, and rinse out my mouth with water. If I don’t, I feel grimy. I have seriously considered keeping a bottle of Listerine on my desk at work so I can do a more thorough cleaning after eating almonds.

I don’t like people trying to talk to me when I’m at the gym. Yes, I’m a sociable person. But if you’re trying to talk to me while I’m exercising with headphones in my ears, I assume you are either stupid, inconsiderate or trying to hit on me. And if it’s the latter, you should know I do not date stupid people who are inconsiderate.

The first time I stepped foot onto an airplane, I was 28 years old. The farthest I have traveled is to Minnesota. Despite these facts, the idea of vacationing across America and visiting other countries intrigues me. I bet Canada would welcome me with open arms.

When I was a senior in high school, I turned down four invitations to the prom. (No, this wasn’t one of those things where the girls were supposed to ask the boys. These girls, apparently, were just tired of waiting.) However, I politely turned down all four invites because I wanted to go with the girl I took to the junior prom. She ended up going with someone else, and I ended up staying home while pondering the concept of irony.

The reason I never get on Facebook is because 90% of my “friends” are former students of mine and one of them once hit on me via Facebook. A female student, long since graduated, sent me an (I’m assuming) alcohol-induced come-hither message. It would be two years before I logged into Facebook after that.

I had never even taken a sip of beer until a few months before my 29th birthday, when I was at a lake cabin in Minnesota. It was the only beverage available. So extreme was my dislike for the taste, I suspected someone had given me water from the lake mixed with alcohol. In fact, I was fairly certain I saw a twig floating in my can.

I do not like to, and rarely do, wear shorts out in public. My reasons range from “they make me look like every other guy” to “they make me have to use more sunscreen than usual, and sunscreen isn’t cheap.”

On a related note, I wear lip balm with SPF protection every single day. The reason is obvious: Next time I am in a position to kiss a woman, I can use “don’t worry, my lips are free of the sun’s harmful ultraviolet rays” to clinch the deal.

And finally…

I have never before, knock on wood, broken a bone in my body. However, my mom, a nurse, informs me it is possible my bruised tailbone could be a broken tailbone. Apparently, bruised, cracked or outright broken, the treatment is the same, so there’s no upside to having an X-ray to find out.

Still, if it is broken, I’m going to have to change the story of how it happened. Most guys break bones playing sports or riding motorcycles. My story can’t be, “I fell in the shower trying to answer a phone.” And my tailbone can’t be the first bone I break. That’s just lame.

No, to anyone who ever asks, the story is I broke both my arms and legs after saving a damsel in distress from a gang of bikers. I gave just as good as I got, and two days later I was healed and good as new.

That’s the story, people.

“I am going to go to bed early tonight so I can wake up at 5 AM and do a marathon workout at the gym!”

Yes, this sounded like a great idea at the time. You see, I hadn’t been able to exercise in 13 days thanks to my sister’s evil plot to call me on the phone while I was in the shower, resulting in the horrific wounding of my tailbone. Since then, I’ve only been able to swim in my pool. No jogging, no weight lifting, no horseback riding, no fraternity hazing.

However, yesterday afternoon a realization hit me.

“I am not in agonizing pain anymore,” I said to myself, out loud, confusing my gathered co-workers who were with me in a meeting.

Granted, I was in no condition to go horseback riding or participate in a hazing, but I believed I could handle a trip to the gym.

“I’m doing this,” I said, again out loud, as co-workers slowly pushed their chairs away from mine.

And so, I did.

I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I set my alarm for 5:30 AM, since 5:00 seemed too insane. By 6:00 I was awake, dressed and on my way to the gym. But not before I had gulped down a tall glass of low-fat chocolate milk mixed with a giant spoonful of whey protein.

Once at the gym, I saw that I had the place to myself. Clearly, I was smarter than my fellow gym members, who were all still asleep in their warm, comfortable beds. Those fools.

I warmed up by jogging on a treadmill for ten minutes. Then I headed over to the free weights section for about thirty minutes. Then I did some ab exercises. Then I started using some of the giant machines that I don’t know what are called. Then…

I began to feel sick.

I had been working hard for a little over an hour. I was almost finished weight lifting, but I still had cardio to do. I had to sit down because I started to feel lighted headed. Then I started to taste the chocolate milk and whey protein. Then…

I realized I probably had pushed myself way too hard on my first day back, and that if I didn’t get home as soon as possible there was a decent chance I would be soiling the gym floor.

So, I gently stood up and slowly made my way towards the exit. Then I slowly walked towards my car. Then I slowly sat down in my car. Then I did nothing for a few minutes.

You see, I was debating. If I was going to, well, become sick, I knew it would be wise not to do it while behind the wheel of my car. For one thing, I am not a fan of vomiting on myself. I never have been, never will be. That’s just how I roll.

Secondly, I didn’t want to vomit all over the inside of my car. Call me crazy, but I believe the “chick magnet” appeal of a Ford Mustang is greatly diminished when covered in someone’s breakfast.

Thirdly, I knew if I was driving when “the act” occurred, I would surely get into an auto accident. That would be bad enough, for obvious reasons. But when you also consider that I would be discovered by the policeman on the scene, the drivers and passengers of the other vehicles, etc. covered in…well, you know…let’s just say I didn’t want that to happen. Plus, you just know someone would record my plight and put in on YouTube.

After a few minutes of waiting, I decided I could make it home before anything happened. So, I turned on the ignition and drove home.

Sixty seconds later (yes, I live very close to my gym), I was in my driveway. I got out of my car, went inside my house, and washed my face with cold water. As I looked at myself in the mirror, two thoughts popped into my head.

The first thought I had, obviously, was, “goodness gracious you are a good looking man!” The second thought was, “hey…I don’t feel sick anymore!”

I was cured. I don’t know how, I don’t know why (wicked awesome immune system perhaps?), but I suddenly felt okay.

Now I had a new dilemma on my hands: Do I go back to the gym to get in my cardio workout?

In the end, common sense won out. Instead of driving back to the gym, I decided to put on my swimsuit and do some laps in my pool. And later, after showering and dressing, I had another low-fat chocolate milk with a giant spoonful of whey protein.

Why?

Because I like to live dangerously.

Thus endeth a lesson about absolutely nothing.

Dear L,

Happy birthday! Or, as you like to call it, Happy Princess Day!

I know we haven’t talked in a long time. This letter is a long time coming. I’m sorry for that.

Do you remember what we were doing three years ago at this time? Your first (and, as it turned out, only) birthday in the state of Georgia. I visited you that morning, supposedly on my way to work, to wish you happy birthday. I told you I wished I didn’t have to work on your birthday, but that I couldn’t help it. Then I left, only to return twenty minutes later. You weren’t as surprised to see me as I expected you to be. Did you see through my charade? Was I that obvious?

The thing I remember most about that day is getting lost in downtown Macon. You seemed perplexed that a man who lived in a town just thirty minutes away could possibly get lost. I was perplexed at how you could possibly be perplexed given my constant and repeated admissions that “sense of direction” is an area of which I am very much lacking.

But alas, the joke was on me. My getting lost made us late for the theater. My punishment? The only movie we could see was the Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock love-drama The Lake House. And yes, to repeat my often-repeated quote, a little part of me died that day!

You know I kid. That was a good day. I miss days like those.

The past two years have been hard for me. Not because I miss you, though I do miss your smile and the way Apple (i.e. the dog who never stopped moving) would always…well, never stop moving! And it’s not because I think we made a mistake. Breaking up and going our separate ways was the right, and kind, thing to do.

It’s been hard because a part of me hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that I failed you in a major, catastrophic way.

I was “the nice boy.” The guy you kept hoping was out there as you waded through the sea of jerks and ignoramuses. The fear that, after things ended with me, you might feel you were unworthy of another “nice” guy has weighed heavily on me.

I’ve worried about you. I’ve worried that the worst the male gender has to offer would get his meaty claws on you. I’ve worried that, unintentionally, I left you in a far worse place than when I found you. I’ve worried that you might miss out on the wonderful life God has planned for you. I’ve worried that you would be unhappy.

It’s a lot of weight I’ve been carrying.

The reason I’m writing you this letter, besides wishing you a happy birthday, isn’t to ask you for forgiveness. I know I did the best I could. I know I looked out for your well being. I know I did right by you. No, the reason I’m writing is I need to say these things, and I need someone to hear me say it.

I forgive myself.

I forgive myself for letting you to turn your life upside down just to be with me. I forgive myself for letting you leave. I forgive myself for not being able to make us be compatible, via planning and reading and Excel spreadsheets, in all the ways we needed to be compatible. I forgive myself for not having faith in your ability to persevere once we parted ways.

I forgive myself for every slight, intentional or unintentional, every misunderstanding, every unfulfilled expectation, and every night I forgot to pray to God for your happiness.

I wasn’t completely aware of the baggage I’d been carrying until a friend recently pointed some things out to me. I wasn’t living up to my potential. Afterward, I realized I still had baggage from our relationship, much of it literal, weighing me down. I needed to let it go. I needed to move on.

I needed to forgive myself.

Finally freed from this burden, I am able to write you and ask without any hidden guilt or agenda: “How are you?”

And, if you were to respond to me with the same question, I can now honestly say: “I’m doing great. The future has never looked brighter.”

Happy birthday, Princess. I pray it finds you, and leaves you, well.

Love,
Kevin

“how to open a conversation”

Coming in at #6 in Google’s returned results was my epic blog of relationship advice, How to Open a Conversation With a Lady. Amongst the gold nuggets of wisdom I imparted were:

• “Ladies want a man who never cries. Ever. If you are talking to a lady when three hundred bees proceed to swarm on you, you better not cry. It doesn’t matter if you are allergic to bee stings. If you cry, she will lose all respect for you.”
• Wearing a bluetooth headset on your ear is great for when you’re starting a conversation with a lady. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, makes a lady weak in the knees quite like walking up to her while talking to an imaginary friend on your bluetooth, telling said imaginary friend you ‘have to go,’ and then telling her, ‘I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m wearing a bluetooth headset on my ear’.”
• “The best advice I can give for starting a conversation with a lady is to seem aloof and indifferent to her. If you have met her before, pretend you do not remember her name. If you are meeting her for the first time, ask her for her name, but then proceed to call her by the wrong name for the rest of the conversation.”

This reader then left me the following comment:

“What a pile of **** and total waste of words. How dare you commit such steaming tripe to my eyeballs. **** you and your family.”

Because I care, because I’m a giver, I’m going to do my best steer my wandering, angry, Canada-stricken friend back onto the right path.

Dear Reader,

First of all, wait a second. You guys have Internet up there? Huh. Who knew?

Second of all, someone needs to wash their mouth out with soap. I don’t know how they do things up in Canada, but in these parts them’s considered fightin’ words.

It’s okay, though. I know you can’t help your social awkwardness. You poor thing. Having to grow up in Canada, with America right there. It must have been torture for you.

Thirdly, I sincerely apologize.

All my blog posts should contain the following caveat: “No tips or advice found within apply if you are Canadian.”

“Not crying” is poor advice if you are Canadian. Everyone up there cries. The men, the women, the mounties — they all cry. Not that I blame any of you, of course. You have to live in Canada! For you NOT to cry must have made you a social outcast.

“Wearing a bluetooth headset on your ear” is also bad advice if you’re Canadian. Surely, you having done so must have frightened your fellow Canadians. They probably thought Americans had caught you, put a tag on your ear and released you back into the wild.

And my “forgetting the lady’s name” advice is just flat-out redundant if you’re Canadian. Everyone in Canada probably forgets everyone’s name already. You’re all too preoccupied watching hockey, hunting for moose meat and wallowing in “I live in Canada” self pity to remember each other’s names.

I feel as though I have failed you. Never in a million years did I think a Canadian would try out my conversation tips (seriously, am I the only one who didn’t know you guys had Internet?), but still…I feel I’ve failed you. So, please, allow me to make amends.

Here are a few CANADA-ONLY tips for opening a conversation with a lady:

• Brag about your culinary skills. Every guy she knows uses three primary spices: salt, pepper and ketchup. Woo her with your use of cumin.
• Knock her socks off with this opening: “Did you know Americans  call ham ‘Canadian bacon’?” Follow it up with: “My uncle once met Alan Thicke.  Do you want to go somewhere and make out, eh?”
• Ask her if she’s excited about moose hunting season.

Hopefully, these will help. Either way, you have my condolences. You poor, poor Canadian.

Sincerely,

Kevin

Hopefully, this post will help ease some of the hurt feelings I caused. If nothing else, it will prove I am a friend to our wacky neighbors up north.

What about the rest of you? What advice would YOU give our Canadian friend here?

How am I just now hearing about this?!

Why didn’t any of you give me a head’s up? You know I’m single. If I had found out about “Flame by BK” eighteen months ago that surely would not still be the case. I would have had women BEGGING me for dates!

Sigh.

You people perplex me sometimes. Just please promise me that as soon as Taco Bell, Pizza Hut or Paris Hilton come out with men’s fragrance, you’ll let me know ASAP.

Okay?

Please?

I remember holding him for the first time like it just happened yesterday. Such a precious bundle of joy. So tiny, so beautiful, so innocent. As I looked down into his brown, barely-open eyes, it made me wonder:

“If I ran out of here right now, with baby in tow, would anyone be able to catch me?”

I wasn’t in the best of shape at the time, but I think I could have done it.

My brother was busy looking at pictures of the baby on his iPhone. He would have been too distracted to catch me. His wife had just given birth. No doubt, maternal instincts would have kicked in, but I’m pretty sure I could have outran her. Avoiding the hospital nurses and staff would have been difficult, but I could have charmed the females and shin-kicked the males.

And, if all else failed, I could have tried to stop time using my mind. I had done that once before. I think. Well, it was hard to tell since I wasn’t wearing a watch.

Where would my nephew and I have gone? What would we do? Why, anywhere and anything! The world would have been our oyster!

(Speaking of which, can you feed oysters to newborn babies? Hmmm. Well, I guess we would’ve found out!)

Maybe we would have moved to a big city. I could have found work as a financial analyst. My nephew could have found work in retail or something. An adorable baby could earn some pretty nice commissions, I’m sure. And since babies, like dogs, are chick magnets, I imagine we would hang out on park benches a lot. If I was lucky, maybe I would have found a nice girl with a kidnapped nephew or niece of her own.

But alas, none of it happened. Instead, I gently handed my nephew back to his mother. Maybe it was just me projecting feelings onto him, but as I gave him back he looked kind of sad.

“What about our plans,” his eyes seemed to say. “What about those oysters? What about those huge commissions I was going to earn?”

“I’m sorry,” I told him, confusing everyone else in the hospital room who thought I was talking to them.

One whole year later. Wow.

Tonight, as we gather around my nephew and his birthday cake, cameras will snap photos and family members will shout encouragements in the hopes the one-year-old will somehow surprise them with a candle-blowing miracle.

And I will there, watching all of it. Smiling. And wondering.

“If I ran out of here right now, with baby in tow, would anyone be able to catch me?”

I’m kidding, people. Happy birthday, James! You can read this, right?

That must be why he’s been my favorite actor since I was twelve. Subconsciously, I must have known he was going to save the world someday.

For years, I assumed my Kevin Costner fandom was a byproduct of being a baseball-obsessed lad who was first introduced to the actor by way of the film Field of Dreams — a love poem to the game if there ever was one. When you’re a 12-year-old boy infatuated with baseball, and you see the definitive baseball movie, you tend to latch onto the actors portraying the characters in the film.

That’s why I was rooting for the bad guy who looked like Ray Liotta  in Terminator 2. It’s why I stalked James Earl Jones for several years. And, it’s why Kevin Costner became my favorite actor.

Or, at least I thought it was the reason. Now I know it’s because a part of me knew he would eventually save mankind.

I bet all those people who jumped off the Costner Bandwagon after Waterworld (which was underrated as an action flick) and The Postman (which was unfairly ridiculed) are feeling pretty foolish right about now.

Not only did they miss seeing films like the hugely underrated western Open Range or the feel-good movie of the century Mr. Brooks (Costner kills the inexplicable Dane Cook), but they missed out on the chance to say:

“Oh, you’re a [insert name of any other actor] fan? That’s nice. But tell me, did [actor] ever SAVE THE HUMAN RACE!?!?”

He starred in the best sports movie of all time. He killed Dane Cook. (Yes, I realize it was just a movie. He’s just working up to the real thing. Give him time.) And now he’s saving us from annihilation.

Kevin Costner is my favorite actor and has been for twenty years.

Jealous?

I am not an unreasonable person.

When we ran out of French Vanilla coffee creamer two years ago, I didn’t make a fuss. Oh, sure, I did go on strike. And yes, I threw eggs at your car. And your house. And your children. And your cat.

Still, under the circumstances I think you can agree I handled myself with restraint, dignity and class.

And earlier this year, when we ran out of green tea, did I make a huge deal out of it? Yes, as retribution I e-mailed everyone in the building and told them you had head lice, but I’m pretty sure most people knew it wasn’t true.

Granted, I probably took it a tad too far when I actually gave you head lice two weeks later. But in my defense, finding a child with lice willing to steal your hairbrush was easier than I thought it would be. Opportunity presented itself, so I gave you head lice. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t have done the same in my shoes?

Now that we have established how rational and agreeable a person I am, perhaps you will better understand the seriousness of the current situation in which we find ourselves.

Here me now: If you don’t buy more plastic spoons for the break room, I’ll make you rue the day you volunteered to take this job out of the goodness of your heart.

Have you ever tried to get peanut butter out of a jar with a plastic fork? HAVE YOU?!? My goodness man, if I wanted to eat like a caveman I would invent a time machine, go back in time, AND EAT LIKE A CAVEMAN!

Believe me, if I ever invent a time machine it won’t be so I can experience what it was like to be a caveman who eats peanut butter with a plastic fork.

No, it will be so I can go back to that fateful day when you agreed to be our break-room-supplies person. What would I do on that day? Well, I’ll give you head lice, of course, but that goes without saying. The rest of my diabolical plan is for me to know and you to hope I never build a time machine so you have to find out.

How can you look at yourself in the mirror knowing we have hundreds of plastic forks, thousands of plastic knives, and zero plastic spoons in the break room??

Shouldn’t you at least put half the effort into restocking the break room with spoons as I did into throwing eggs at your children?

Maybe I’m just old school, but I think a person should take pride in their work. Do you think I half-heartedly threw eggs at your children when they were playing in the park? No! I gave it all I had! Not even their cries of “Mister, why are you throwing eggs at us” deterred me from doing the job to the best of my ability.

You volunteer for an unpaid position, you best be willing to drop whatever you are doing and go buy plastic spoons when our supply runs low. And if you’re not willing to do that, you best be willing to suffer the consequences.

I want plastic spoons. Give them to me.

Sincerely,

That guy who gave you lice and threw eggs at your children

“And I’m humble, too,” said the man, contributing his two cents.

Among the man’s numerous virtues was a derriere without blemish.

“It’s never even endured a ‘kick me’ sign posted to it,” the man said, not letting the narrator finish.

But all that changed one Friday morning at dawn, when an evil sister hatched a plot to wound the awesome thing the awesome man sits on.

“I was the epitome of a good brother,” lamented the man at her betrayal.

“Well, unless you count that time I tried to mail her to Australia.”

On that fateful Friday, the man was in the shower, getting ready for work.

“Getting to smell a clean ‘me’ each day is one of my co-workers many me-related perks.”

Suddenly, off in the distance, the man hears his cell phone ringing.

“Who could that be,” thought the man, as he was busy exfoliating.

Though early morning phone calls were truly rare, the man ignored his phone and continued scrubbing his hair.

“Must be one of my many admirers,” the man thought, as he reached for the conditioner.

“Why do you have to be so gosh darn handsome,” he said, to no one in particular.

When the phone began ringing again, a new thought popped into the man’s head.

“Oh no, there must be a family emergency,” the dripping-wet man said.

Out of the shower, the man bolted like lightning. Neither modesty nor wetness would prevent him from answering.

“A lesser man would worry about slipping or something. But a man like me…oops, here I go falling.”

As he fell to the ground like a clumsy kid in preschool, a pain shot through the man’s body that was anything but cool.

“I’m not gonna lie,” said the man, pointing to his eye.

“This is where the tears would be, you know, if I could cry.”

Many minutes later, the man was able to get up from the ground.

“I think this is what pain feels like,” the man said, before making an unusual sound.

“Ow,” said the man, for the first time in his life.

“This is the exact opposite of awesome. Did I fall on a carving knife?”

A badly-bruised tailbone was the awesome man’s fate. As he reached for his phone, he worried if he was too late.

“A family emergency takes precedent over my plight. Let me hit redial and see if everything’s alright.”

“Hello,” his sister replied. “You finally picked up your phone!”

“This better be important,” the man said. “You mortally wounded my tail bone.”

“I am at your front doorstep, but didn’t want to come inside before checking if you’re decent.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” the main replied before going off on a long, pain-induced, anything-but-awesome tangent.

The pain he now felt was all for nothing. There was no family emergency, just an evil sister who needed to come inside and grab something.

Four days later, it still hurts when he sits down. It hurts when he stands up. It hurts when he…types the word “brown.”

“Soon, my awesome healing powers will kick in,” the man says with conviction.

“Until then, at least I still have my humility,” he says, gazing at his own reflection.

I’ve practically done it all.

Seen the world? Yep, I’ve seen both Florida and Alabama.

Perfected a skill? I don’t want to brag, but I do have a “Best Defense” baseball award from my sophomore year of high school sitting at home.

Been to a musical on Broadway? Well, no, but I HAVE seen the movie Greece. And just this weekend I watched Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog on Netflix.

Kissed a girl? Well, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. But yes. Yes I have.

As you can see, “been there done that” might as well be my life’s catchphrase. Still, every so often an idea for something new pops into this devilishly-handsome thing I call a head.

“I have never gone an entire week without eating solid food.”

Okay, sure, there was that whole “when I was a baby” period where I didn’t eat solid food. I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count, though. Besides, how can I be certain I didn’t eat solid food when I was a newborn? Were my parents watching me 24/7? How do I know for sure that I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, crawl out of my crib and order a pizza? You telling me a two-month old Kevin couldn’t have figured out how to dial the number for Pizza Hut while his parents were asleep at 3 AM?

Anyway, I accepted the challenge. Operation: Liquid Diet was underway.

Actually, I accepted the challenge a week ago. Last Monday, on day one, mitigating circumstances forced me to temporarily abort the mission around 6:45 in the evening. You see, there was a packet of Ramen Noodles in my cabinet that I was fairly certain had neared its expiration date.

“I can’t let this go to waste,” I told myself. “That would be…wasteful!”

And so, I cooked the packet of Ramen Noodles and ate it. However, the intense hunger pains I had been feeling was NOT the reason I went off the liquid diet. No, it was my commitment not to be wasteful. That was the sole reason.

Really!

The next day, Tuesday, I began anew. And to my not-in-the-least-bit surprise, it was fairly easy.

A wide variety of juices became my friends. Acai Mixed Berry. Blueberry Pomegrante. Grape. All are 100% juice with no sugar added, of course. I also began to embrace something called “V8 Fusion Light”, with its mixture of both fruit and vegetable juices.

Milk with a spoonful of whey protein became my go-to meal. Green tea and water never left my side throughout the day.

As crazy as it sounds, I was getting more protein and vitamins drinking liquids than I ever got eating solid foods. My energy skyrocketed. My skin’s complexion even improved. That one tiny wrinkle on my “I cannot believe he’s 32 years old” face evaporated.

Of course, then Sunday, Father’s Day, rolled around. We were having a family get-together at my house. We were going to swim in my pool and use the new outdoor, electric grill my siblings and I bought our dad for the special day.

It would have been rude for me not to have partaken in a hamburger. And grilled broccoli, squash and zucchini. And half of a sheet cake.*

*I am teasing about the cake. Cake is evil. I’m pretty sure Hitler was made out of cake.

I couldn’t have been rude, could I?

So, after five full days of no solid foods, day six saw me eat a hamburger and vegetables. And this means, of course, that the week must start over.

Today is day one. Again.

Nothing will deter me this time. Nothing will prevent me from completing my quest. Nothing will…

What’s that? Doughnuts in the break room?

“What kind of sauce or dressing do people usually get on their breakfast sandwich,” I asked.

“Mayo.”

“Mayo?? On a breakfast sandwich?!”

“Yep, mayo.”

Not to go off on a rant here, but there are items where mayonnaise is perfectly acceptable. A hamburger, for example. Or a turkey sandwich. For each of these, I use and enjoy mayo myself in the “light” or “made with olive oil” varieties. For my money, there’s nothing quite like a sandwich with mayo on wheat bread using leftover turkey from Thanksgiving.

But a breakfast sandwich? Are you kidding me??

People are actually putting mayo on an egg omelet placed between, in some cases, two halves of an English muffin?

One word comes to mind: disgusting.

If there are any such mayo enthusiasts out there, my apologies. But good grief, people. May God have mercy on your artery-clogged souls.

It’s true. Five years ago, I dipped my toe into the zany world of blogging so a crush of mine could be impressed by my witty, deep thoughts.

Once that relationship fizzled, my blog morphed into a silly, bipolar collection of rants much like the one you see today.

Still, it all began because of a girl. And, one way or another, “a girl” has been my blogging muse ever since.

After the first girl came and went, I continued blogging. I did this mostly because I enjoyed it, but also because I wanted her, if she ever visited, to see how well I was doing. Yes, we men are such fragile creatures.

Somehow, blogging led me to the next girl in my life. She found my blog, read my amusing/annoying anecdotes, saw my dashingly-handsome profile picture, and contacted me.

She lived in Minnesota. Eventually, we met. Eventually, we became a couple. Eventually, she picked up and moved across the country to be with me. And eventually, and sadly, we discovered it just wasn’t meant to be and went our separate ways.

That relationship lasted thirteen months. During that time, most of my blog posts were inspired by her in some way, shape or form. For example, my “Man Narrowly Misses Watching Chick Flick” post was inspired by a visit to Blockbuster we had. She wanted to rent the Matthew McConaughey and Sarah Jessica Parker rom-com Failure to Launch. I, on the other hand, want to die a slightly less painful death.

My silly “Hey Jealousy” post was inspired by a pair of shoes I owned that were loathed by this particular girl.

“That Guy”, my epic call to arms where I implored my fellow man to stop holding the purses of their wives and girlfriends was inspired by, well, our running joke where I refused to hold this girlfriend’s purse whenever we went shopping.

The next few months found me blogging, mostly, as a coping mechanism. It gave me something to do. It took my mind off things. The occasional venture into the dating world also helped take my mind off things, but blogging was the main distraction. I twice redesigned my blog. I averaged several new posts a week. I made “making my blog popular” a priority.

The resulting increase in traffic eventually led to two new acquaintances within a span of just a few weeks. And yes, by “acquaintances” I mean girls.

I never met the first girl, but we became great friends. For about five months, she inspired (and once actually wrote) my blog posts. And even though during this period of time the thought of her marrying someone would have agreed with me like an Obama speech agrees with Congressman Joe Wilson, when she married a great Christian man last March I couldn’t have been happier for her.

The second girl I did get to meet.

I am not going to go into specifics, but I will say I believe I became smitten with her back in January of last year. That is when I received an e-mail from her that contained references to Christmas, Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, Bill Maher and gum ulcers. And, yes, I realize “Bill Maher” and “gum ulcers” are redundant.

That e-mail also included a smiling photo.

Numerous phone calls, e-mails, text messages and months later, I got to meet her. That meeting eventually inspired a particularly melancholy blog post about missed opportunities and the hope for second chances.

The tone and scope of my blog changed that day. Sometimes, I wrote to inspire myself. Sometimes, I wrote to occupy my time. Mostly, I wrote in the hopes that doing so would help this particular girl not forget about me.

With almost an entire year now passed and my readership down to a level that could rival the number of members in Emilio Estevez’s fan club, the time has come where I need to rethink my purpose for blogging.

Who am I writing for?

Truth be told, this blog should never have been about any one person (or series of persons), unless that person was me. I don’t need a muse. I don’t need any one person to read what I write in order to validate what I write. This blog needs to be about making numerous people, yours truly included, think and laugh.

That’s why I blog.

Or, at least it’s why I will blog from this moment on.

If all of us walked around with wood baseball bats, whispering at barely audible levels, the world would surely be a better place.

At the very least, no one would talk during movies anymore.

Nineteenth century philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, perhaps best known for his “God is dead” statement, once said: “For every man there exists a bait which he cannot resist swallowing.”

Asked for a quote today, I imagine Nietzsche would say something like, “It is really difficult eating humble pie when Satan is poking you in the butt with a pitchfork.”

So profound.

During a heavy storm, a six-story statue of Jesus in Ohio was struck by lightning and burned to the ground.

When asked for comment, the lightning admitted it also wanted to strike down an Islamic structure, but that it feared the repercussions.

“You can actually let Christian symbols fall apart,” explained the lightning. “But if you would do this with an Arab symbol, you would have a fatwa [death sentence]. *

“No way am drawing the ire of Muslims! I’m a lightning bolt, not a crazy person.”

(*Click here to read the decidedly unfunny reference.)

“Dentistry is a scam!”

In its list of ten small changes individuals can make that will have big health payoffs, Yahoo Health lists “floss more often” as number one.

When asked for comment, a random British man said something unintelligible and then a piece of broccoli stuck between his teeth since 2002 fell to the ground.

Police in Ocala, Florida, are searching for a burglar who stole a box of cookies from a discount store. The same store was burglarized in February when a suspect swiped a pack of snack cakes.

Have you seen this individual? If yes, please call the Ocala Police Department. If you are a cookie, please, do not approach him. He is very dangerous.

Despite surveillance video catching the suspect in the act and a detailed sketch drawing (pictured) of the individual made available to the public, authorities admit the suspect is unlikely to ever be brought to justice.

“I’ve watched that video at least a dozen times,” admitted an unidentified Ocala policeman.

“It could be anyone.”

Wonderful.

So you’re telling me that not only do I have to worry about being mauled by “cougars” (Definition: Older women looking for younger men) while wearing my Calvin Klein cologne at the grocery store, I have to also worry about being mauled by actual jaguars?

I’m going to have to switch to Stetson cologne.

That stuff repels anything.

“What’s your secret,” they will ask me. “Could you give my husband any pointers,” they will continue. “Can I have a lock of your hair,” they will beg. “Drink this…it’s not spiked with knock-out pills,” they will promise.

“Ladies,” I will tell them, after waking up, groggy, while tied to a chair.

“Being charming is easy. I can teach any man how to do it. Now, please, let me go home.”

For most of us, charm isn’t something you’re born with. You’re not born with a mullet, Crocs and a Japanese tattoo that supposedly means something cool but there’s really no way for you to know for sure since you don’t speak Japanese, right? No, you had to acquire those things over time. Charm is the same way.

So, how do you acquire charm? How do you learn it? How do you become it?

Easy.

“Hush, minions. Don’t interrupt the Barack when he’s talking. Sit quietly & worship me.”

Like every other charming, successful man in this world, I owe my charm and success to two individuals: George Clooney and Barack Obama.

Ever watched an interview with George Clooney? Ever seen Barack Obama give a speech? Ever seen photos of either man? Ever paid close attention to their faces?

That unmistakable quality you notice? That, my friends, is smugness; the “I am so much better than you” quality that cinema patrons and voters just can’t get enough of.

Just study these two individuals, mimic what they do and you’ll be set!

You see, most people are too stupid to distinguish between smugness and charm. Just perfect the former and you’ll be thought of as the latter.

Horror has a face. A smug one.

It’s so easy even Sean Penn can do it!

Note: Nothing about this post, except for the parts about Clooney and Obama being smug, is true. The day I model anything after either individual is the day I take an art class and my teacher tells me to use clay to mold something utterly horrific.

In short, I’ve become somewhat of a minimalist. “Keep it simple, stupid” has more or less become my life’s mantra.

My reasons range from an aversion to needless clutter (I come from a family of pack rats), my innate sense of frugality (I value quality over quantity), and my desire to avoid stress and drama whenever possible (Mo’ things, mo’ problems). Minimalism, or at least my version of minimalism, allows me to address all three issues.

What are some examples of my minimalist ways? Why, I’m glad you asked!

When you live alone, there really is no need to have more than one chair in your living room.

Seriously, why do I need to be able to accommodate seating for four or more when 90% of the time there’s just me in the house? That’s just wasteful!

My philosophy: Have one recliner in the living room and one fold-up chair in the hall closet. If you have one visitor, they can go grab the chair from the closet. If you have more than one visitor, they can fight to see who gets the chair. You can sit there, comfortable in your recliner, content with the knowledge you haven’t been wasteful, while watching your brothers and sisters duke it out for your entertainment. It’s win-win-win!

This philosophy also works with dining room chairs, plates, forks, spoons, mugs/glasses, bathroom towels, cue sticks for billiard tables, and antidotes for rare poisons you keep around your house that are disguised to look like M&Ms and Skittles.

“Hey kids! Ol’ St. Nick is bringing sexy back! Ho, ho, ho!”

Girls might like extra poundage on a guy since it reminds them of their first childhood love, Santa Claus, but a slimmer physique has many benefits that outweigh the reduction in female attention.

For starters, you don’t have to bring a sewing needle, thread and a button with you everywhere you go. No longer do you need a “what if the button on my too-tight pants pops off and hits someone in the eye like a delicious, delicious pizza pie” contingency. Those sewing items take up valuable space inside the glove box in your car, which is the opposite of minimalism.

The main upside to slimming down is the simple fact that having less YOU is the very epitome of minimalism.

“I’m not anorexic. I’m a minimalist!”

Granted, no one could ever accuse me of having an eating disorder. But a minimalist can dream can’t he?

“So THEN Michelle said to Uncle Jesse: ‘You got it, dude.’ Isn’t that hilarious?!”

Instead of having a collection of DVDs, own one DVD that you watch over and over and over.

The benefits of this one are almost too numerous to list. For starters, since it’s your only DVD, no friend or family member will ever ask to borrow it from you. And if they do ask you can just give them the puppy dog eyes and say, “But it’s my only DVD!” Never having to loan a DVD means you never have to nag people until they return it to you. This is a huge time saver.

Another benefit to owning only one DVD and watching it over and over is you became an expert on that DVD. This ability to drop knowledge bombs onto people’s heads comes in very useful in everyday conversation. Besides, nothing impresses a person quite like hearing someone quoting an entire episode of Full House.

Seriously, though, I am beginning to shift towards a minimalist lifestyle. I want to remove as much clutter from my life as possible. Old clothes? If I never wear them, why keep them. Assorted knickknacks around my home? Less is more when it comes to decoration, I think, especially if you’re a single guy. The latest and greatest technological gadgets? All I need is a phone, a laptop and an iPod.

Of course, I really think I’m on to something with that “one chair” idea. I’m going to implement that one immediately!

There will be no tales of how a young man who was dedicated to improving his craft as a 1st baseman practiced stretching day in and day out for several months. There will be no explanation as to how being able to stretch farther enabled him to catch baseballs thrown to him milliseconds sooner, and how those milliseconds helped his team win ballgames. There will be no description of the “oooohs” and “ahhhhs” his exhibits solicited from the baseball-viewing crowds.

No, there will be none of that.

This is a blog post about how I value — nay, demand — flexibility in my life. I like to have options. I like knowing that I can react to the things life may throw at me without the burden of being tied down.

The gym of which I’m a member wasn’t chosen because it had the best selection of equipment. It wasn’t chosen because it was the least expensive. It wasn’t chosen because it was closest to my home. No, it was chosen because I did not have to sign a contract. There was no long-term commitment. I am month to month, and if a better gym option ever comes along I can pounce on it without penalty.

The same is true with my cell phone carrier. My family used AT&T, so I used AT&T. Two years ago, when my contract expired, I didn’t renew. Sure, I kept AT&T as my provider, but I didn’t sign another contract. I am a month-to-month customer. If a better deal ever comes along, I can leave AT&T without having to pay a fine for breaking my contract.

And then there is the little matter of my lodging.

One year ago this month, I moved into a nice little rental home with a swimming pool. It had a nice lawn, a nice screened-in porch, and a nice, long, 12-month contract.

I didn’t like committing myself to a contract for that long, but I gambled that I would not need to relocate from the area within that length of time. Besides, as a friend told me, 12 months isn’t that long in the grand scheme of things.

So, I signed the lease. I correctly gambled that no life-changing event would happen that caused me to regret such a decision. I completed the 12 months and now have a deja-vu dilemma on my hands:

“Do I sign a new long-term lease, or no?”

A week ago, my landlord mailed me a new lease contract to sign and return. It was exactly the same as the one I signed last year. Same rent, same stipulations, same 12-month term.

I contacted my landlord this morning and told her I would not be signing it.

Last May, while looking for a new place, I dubbed my future home “Fort Awesome.” (Click to enlarge)

No, I’m not moving. I’m staying put. However, I am choosing an undeniably non-frugal path for the sake of obtaining the ultimate in flexibility.

Under the terms of the lease I signed last year, if it lapses without either party (me or my landlord) choosing to terminate it, it is renewed on a month-to-month basis. Every term of the lease remains the same, and I have the ability to cancel the lease without penalty at any time by giving a 30-day notice.

The only catch is my rent increases by 10%.

So, for an extra 10% each month, which I can afford, I gain the flexibility of being able to pick up and move at any time — either across the street or across the country.

There is no other downside, as far as I can tell. My landlord can terminate the month-to-month lease by giving a 60-day notice. But she can terminate ANY lease — month to month, 6 months, 12 months or 12 years — by giving a 60-day notice.

In short, I’m swapping a little extra dough in exchange for freedom.

Why is flexibility so important to me? I don’t know any other way to answer than, “it just is.”

I don’t know where my life will be six, twelve or two hundred months from now. I am a single guy with no ties to the area other than family, but I hope/pray/know that will not always be the case.

I am a proactive person. I view life as a game of chess, so it behooves me to look ahead into the distance. Do I know what my future holds? No, but I know there is the possibility I could get to a place where contracts and commitments could make moving on to the next stage in my life harder than it needs to be.

My future could be here, in this town, for decades to come.

Or it could be somewhere else.

It’s for this latter reason I am willing to sacrifice my precious frugality for flexibility. When God taps me on the shoulder and presents to me a situation I should jump at, I want to be able to jump without anything holding me down.

And, to me, that’s worth a less-than-stellar gym and an extra 10% per month in rent.

What can I say? I’m unusual. And if this story didn’t convince most of you of this fact, go reread my introduction about doing splits!

Regarding the soft spot I have for people who have been smitten by Cupid:

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

Regarding the reason I am not afraid of our country’s recession:

“Probably because it sounds so much like ‘recess,’ the word ‘recession’ doesn’t scare me. Whenever I hear someone say the word I begin daydreaming about being a kid again, climbing monkey bars on a playground and ‘accidentally’ knocking the other kids down. Good times, good times.”

Regarding the way items still smell like “grandma’s house” years after leaving her domain:

“I don’t pretend to understand the science behind it, but it’s nothing short of magical. (…) That smell (has) been living in the house for several decades. It (has) become a living entity. It (is) alive, it (is) powerful, and it (is) angry.”

Regarding my practice of only rinsing out my coffee mug with hot water:

“Some might say that this is still unsanitary. I would argue that coffee’s abundant awesomeness purifies and cleans the mug better than any soap or brush ever could. And by not recklessly using soap, I am helping save the environment.

To those who might ridicule my practice, I ask: why do you hate the environment? What did it ever do to you? Rain on your wedding day is no reason to hate the environment, Alanis.”

I go on…

By not washing my coffee mug I have allowed it to remain in its original, pristine state. Imagine if Leonardo da Vinci cleaned the Mona Lisa with soap every day. (…) The constant cleaning would’ve meant Leonardo would have been too busy to write his movie script for The Da Vinci Code.”

Regarding…um, well, this was the closing line in a blog post about a disappointing baseball pitcher who had been euthanized, became a zombie, and was now pitching against the team that put him down. Yes, it is as crazy as it sounds:

“It’s always nice when you get the chance to prove your doubters wrong and eat their delicious brains.”

“Why does it feel like I forgot to do something? Oh! My second bucket of fried chicken!”

Regarding how unusual it is for me to sign a credit card receipt without reviewing it:

“I’m methodical when it comes to finances, so this oversight is the equivalent of a surgeon forgetting to wash his hands or Rosie O’Donnell forgetting to eat her second lunch.”

Regarding a person being pinched for not wearing green on St. Patty’s Day:

“Who on earth invented this practice of pinching anyone who isn’t wearing the color green on St. Patrick’s Day? Was it the same guy behind all those Leprechaun movies? If so, dude, haven’t you done enough?”

Regarding the brutally blunt and aggressive way I describe the different categories of female attractiveness:

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

Regarding my disdain for our overly litigious society:

“I wish I could sue people who file frivolous lawsuits.”

Regarding my body’s amazing ability to heal itself:

“On numerous occasions during my life, I’ve cut my face while shaving. Miraculously, a few minutes later, the bleeding will stop. True story.”

“I am NOT crying. I just have a little makeup in my eye!”

Regarding my tongue-in-cheek defense of Alex Rodriguez after it was revealed the baseball player fainted when his wife was giving birth to their first born:

“So what if he stays up until 3 AM every Friday night to watch Steel Magnolias and cry his eyes out? It would take a robot not to cry at that movie.”

Regarding my disbelief at how I am single, yet Charles Ray Fuller — the man who tried to cash a $360 billion check — has a girlfriend:

“My handwriting is exquisite. Mr. Fuller, based on the scanned image of his forged check, has very poor penmanship.”

“I have a moderately good sense of humor. The funniest thing Mr. Fuller has ever done, based on the evidence at hand, is try to cash a $360 billion check. Granted, that is funny. But is it ‘ha ha’ funny?”

“Mr. Fuller was unlawfully carrying a weapon. I have never unlawfully carried a weapon, unless you count these two fists of fury attached to the ends of my wrists.”

I don’t WANT to tell your kid I will murder Santa Claus if he doesn’t behave, but doggone it I will if you don’t get him to stop throwing cereal at that poor old lady.

Regarding my open letter to parents asking them to start teaching their children the proper ways to behave in society and to stop waiting for good Samaritans like myself to do it for them:

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

Regarding my inability to give someone a backhanded compliment:

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

Regarding the reason my poor sense of direction and my innate awesomeness are related:

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

Nothing will discourage rebellion in students quite like the possibility their teacher is a deranged psycho who might hurt them.

Regarding my advice to a teacher who was having trouble controlling her classroom:

“Write ‘I once shot a man in Reno just to watch him die’ on the chalkboard or whiteboard at the front of the classroom. Write it in big letters. Leave it up all school year, but never make mention of it. Being mysterious works when dating, and it works when trying to keep students guessing as to whether or not you’re psycho.”

Regarding my assertion that I am the same humble, down-to-earth guy I was when I first started blogging:

“It’s just like I was telling my butler, Jeeves, the other day after I threw my glass of 1997 Romane Conti in his face:

‘Red wine should be served at 60 degrees Fahrenheit, you buffoon. This tastes like 61 or 62!’

Wait, no, that wasn’t it. What relevant thing was it I told him? Ah yes, I remember.

‘I am the same humble, down-to-earth guy I was when I first started blogging.’

And you know what Jeeves said?

‘The master is correct, sir.’

See? If that’s not concrete proof, I don’t know what is. Ol’ Jeeves is a straight shooter. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

I honestly can’t say whether lots of reader comments would encourage me or discourage me from posting a Volume 3. Hmmm. I guess it’s a darned if you do, darned if you don’t situation, depending on your point of view. Best just to leave me lots of comments and hope for the best!

Regarding the questionable purity of “virgin” olive oil:

“Color me confused, but if Extra Virgin Olive Oil is as advertised how is there seemingly a never ending supply of the stuff? Granted, I’m no expert on the reproductive habits of olives, but something just doesn’t add up. Methinks a few olives aren’t being entirely truthful.”

Regarding my need for a tan:

“If I had fangs, I’m fairly certain people would mistake me for a vampire if I was walking around at night in a graveyard (as I often do).”

Regarding the incompetence of a certain restaurant in Macon, GA:

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

Back in ‘04, Robot Gore had no idea Tipper would someday leave him for a toaster.

Regarding the evils of the (then) popular MySpace:

“If Al Gore was alive to see what has become of his precious invention, the Internet, I believe he would weep. Well, he wouldn’t actually cry (robots cannot cry), but he’d be sad.”

Regarding why we smile whenever we see a baby:

“When we see a baby, we think of birthday cake. On that baby’s first birthday, there will be cake. On its 10th birthday, there will be cake. Assuming the baby lives to be 100, there will have been 100 birthday cakes created and eaten in his/her lifetime to celebrate the passing of each year. Why do we smile? Because we think maybe, just maybe, we’ll get to eat some of that cake.”

Regarding the 1980s television show Murder She Wrote starring Angela Lansbury:

“Every episode she would go somewhere and a murder would happen. She would *conveniently* solve the murder. Why didn’t anyone put two and two together and realize this woman was a serial killer who was pinning her crimes on innocent people?”

Regarding the resiliency of coffee machines:

“Coffee machines simply do not ‘break.’ They’re like alarm clocks, blue jeans or tooth brushes in that regard – once you have one, decades go by before you need another.”

Behold, their demon seed will someday destroy us all.

Regarding the love child that will one day destroy mankind:

“Someday, FoodTV ‘personalities’ Rachael Ray and Emeril Lagasse are going to fall in love and have a child. And that child will one day destroy the world. Ironically, however, the child will not be able to cook.”

Regarding misleading movie titles:

“As a kid, I never thought I’d get over the disappointment of The Never Ending Story being only 102 minutes long.”

“Am I the only one who expected Kindergarten Cop to be about a 5-year old who fights crime?”

“I’m sure that many a moviegoer was confused to see Rosie O’Donnell in the film Beautiful Girls.”

Regarding the inexplicable-ness of Bluetooth headsets:

“I have seen the future and it is not pretty. Society is divided into two groups: 1) Those who wear Bluetooth headsets on their ears, and 2) Those who want to punch in the face those who wear them.”

Note to self: Bring chocolate, flowers and silver bullets.

Regarding a Chinese fortune cookie that read, “The next full moon brings an enchanting evening”:

“Does this mean I’m going to meet and fall in love with a werewolf?”

Regarding how I look like Brad Pitt when I sneeze:

“You know how sometimes you feel a sneeze coming, you prepare for it, and then nothing happens? If you’ve ever seen someone do this, you know how silly it looks. That is, except when I do it. When I do it, I might as well be posing for a magazine photographer. How else do you explain the multiple co-workers who have taken pictures of me in the act with their cell phones?”

Regarding the question, “Why do baseball players spit?”:

“It’s a fair question, but a difficult one to answer. It’s like asking why a rugby team stranded in the snowy Andes mountains after a plane crash would resort to cannibalism in order to survive. It’s something you have to be a part of to totally understand.”

Regarding the opening line to a speech I once gave to an auditorium full of people:

“Hello. My name is Kevin. And yes ladies…I’m single.”

Regarding the psychological warfare I employed while on strike until my work’s break room restocked the supply of French Vanilla coffee creamer:

“Whenever someone asked me if they could borrow a pen or pencil, I told them I didn’t have one. But I really did.”

I would sooner slaughter a village filled with puppies and kittens than let Paris get her hands on me!

Regarding the news that Paris Hilton was looking to date a “nice” boy:

“Needless to say, this revelation has terrified me. (…) Hear me well. As of today, a new Kevin is born. A new Kevin who, for lack of a better phrase, is pure evil.”

Regarding the “cats versus dogs” debate and the dog’s ability to save his owner from a burning building:

“My cat might leave me to die if my home is ever on fire, but at least he has the intelligence to remember me after I’m gone. ‘My owner was awesome,’ he will tell his cat friends years later. ‘He fought those flames until the bitter end.’”

Regarding…well, I’m not really sure:

“If eyes are the window to the soul, why does it sting so badly when I spray them with Windex?”

I love a great quote/tip. No, I’m not saying this quote/tip is a great one. I’m just saying, in general, me likes a good quotable. This one? Meh. It’s alright. It’d be better if it was funnier. You know, if it threw in another “first” that was silly and completely inconsequential. Like, “Keep a picture of your first fish, first car, first girlfriend, and first toothbrush.” Then people would read it and think:

“First toothbrush? Why on earth would I want a picture of that? The others I understand, they make sense. But why a toothbrush? I suppose if I grew up to become a dentist such a picture would hold special meaning to me. Or maybe if my first toothbrush was one that had been passed down in our family for generations. But that is very unhygienic and gross. Taking a picture of it would only prove my family is crazy. Why am I even pondering this…”

[Editor's note: The previous was written before Kevin's morning cup of caffeine. The rest was written after. And yes, Kevin is the editor. This is me. Hello.]

Ahem.

The quality of this particular quote notwithstanding, it does give me blogging inspiration: Talk about my firsts! My first fish. My first car. My first girlfriend. My first…toothbrush, if I’m ever really strapped for an idea.

This sounds like it would make an excellent blog series. And yes, when I say excellent I do mean something far short of excellence. Up first, since it appeared first in the quote, I’ll talk about my first fish. Hmmm. I hope I can stay awake long enough to finish it.

MY FIRST FISH is a very boring tale. I’ll be honest. I’m a manly man who likes to do manly things, but I’ve never been fond of fishing.

I’ve said many a time (i.e. whenever I come across a fishing show on TV when I’m flipping through channels) that, “The only thing more boring than fishing is watching someone fishing.” And, I suppose the only thing more boring than that is writing about fishing.

Here’s the thing: Fishing requires a lot of patience, a certain amount of skill, and a little luck. I’m lacking in the first and last of those requirements.

To a novice (i.e. not a professional) fisherman like me, putting your hook in the water and snagging a fish is akin to putting on a blindfold and making a basketball free-throw. Is it exciting when it happens? Sure. But I recognize it for what it is: Luck. Happenstance.

There is nothing special I did to cause this fish to bite my hook. This fish did not think:

“You know…there is something special about the way this particular worm is tied to this particular hook. Whoever did this is an artist. I must meet him. But how? [thinks for a few moments] Martha (the fish’s wife is named Martha), I’m going to bite that hook. Don’t try to talk me out of it. Tell the children I love them. If I’m fortunate, this fishing god will take pity on me and allow me to return to you. But if not, hopefully he will turn me into a fish taco. I’ve always wanted to be a fish taco…”

[Editor's note: Okay, a second cup of caffeine is clearly needed.]

Ahem.

I short, I don’t enjoy partaking in activities where luck is the overwhelming factor. If I did, I’d spend my days trying to find four-leaf clovers and rabbit’s feet.

And yes, there is the little matter of me not having the patience for fishing. Most people who fish believe it is relaxing. I do not find it relaxing. I’m much too competitive to find it relaxing. I would want to catch every single fish in the water, leaving none for anyone else. I would want little children to cry and say to their fathers, “Why did that man catch all the fishies?” And I would want the fathers to respond, “Because he’s better than us, son.”

On that note, I will quickly (and finally) relay the tale of my first fish. When I was around 7 or 8 years old, my dad took me and my younger brother to a little pond. He showed us how to bait the hooks and all that fun stuff. Within the first ten minutes, I had caught a fish.

I would learn later that my dad wasn’t even sure there were fish in this pond. But I caught one. My dad did not. My brother did not. I did. I beat them. I beat them both. I won.

[insert evil laugh]

I might have a competitiveness problem.

A wise man once said that a closed mouth gathers no feet. This is true, I suppose, assuming you don’t have a huge gap in the front of your teeth. Then tiny feet could work their way inside. I suppose the prudent thing to do in that situation would be holding your hand over your mouth at all times. Or maybe go see a dentist.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer.” I guess this means I’m an asset to have around if walking down a dark alley, so long as we avoid confrontation with long-winded criminals who like to talk to their victims for longer than five minutes.

Another Ralph Waldo Emerson quote:

“When a resolute young fellow steps up to the great bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the beard, he is often surprised to find it comes off in his hand, and that it was only tied on to scare away the timid adventurers.”

This is why, whenever I see a man with a beard, I walk up to him and, without speaking, grab his beard and pull with all my might. If this results in loud screams and nonstop sobbing, as it has every single time to date, I apologize and say, “My bad, I thought you were a bully.”

The only pick-up line you’ll ever need to have success with women is, “Hi! How are you?” It shows you are bold, confident and do not play games. If you can also trick them into thinking you’re rich and famous, even better.

William Blake once said, “Great things are done when men and mountains meet.” I’m not sure if Blake was being metaphorical, but I have yet to experience anything even remotely great when meeting a mountain. Get your act together, Appalachian Mountains. I’m tired of carrying you.

Calvin Coolidge, the 30th President of the United States, once said:

“Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan ‘press on’ has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.”

If I’m understanding Coolidge correctly: Ladies, this means you really need to give that untalented, dumb, ignorant guy who keeps asking you out a chance. One day, he will solve all the world’s problems. And you know what that means. Yep, someday he’ll be rich!

One of my new favorite quotes is from Henry Ward Beecher: “Clothes and manners do not make the man; but, when he is made, they greatly improve his appearance.”

I say these words, out loud, whenever I’m wearing a toga and eating baked beans with my bare hands.

To save money, I want to make a homemade after-shave balm/moisturizer to replace the marked-up products I buy from the store. However, I fear that making my own moisturizer, no matter the motive, is decidedly unmanly.

Okay, first off, for those who might think less of me after yesterday’s somewhat-prissy post, I’ll have you know when I got home I punched a pine tree. Then I stepped on an ant. Then I threw a rock at a kid who was picking flowers. Then I high-fived some guy for no good reason. That’s what men do! And I’m a man!!

Ahem.

In all seriousness, I omitted an important, secondary reason for wanting to make my own balm/moisturizer. The awesome Jenny reminded me of it in the comment she left me:

“…Smelling like a flower is (why a product) costs a bajillion dollars.”

Exactly! The fragrances (as well as the preservatives, which are needed to preserve them until the end of time) are why these products cost so much. (Well, that and the All-American store mark-up!)

I’m a guy. I don’t want to smell like flowers. I don’t want to smell like, well, anything. These “for men” products do not smell like women’s products, thank goodness, but they do have distinct smells.

And these distinct smells, naturally, are supposed to be “manly.” Many are, but many others smell like hospitals. Either way, here’s the thing…

If your shampoo smells like one thing, your shaving cream smells like another thing, your balm/moisturizer smells like another, your body wash/soap smells like another thing and your deodorant smells like something else entirely, the end result isn’t you smelling like a man. The end result is you smelling like a man who was attacked by several ninjas, each of whom had bathed in different fragrances before roundhouse kicking you.

If you add a nice cologne to the mix as many men do, including yours truly, the aromatic assault you unleash on the public can be considered criminal.

Maybe I’m a dreamer, but I want to live in a world where men’s products smell like…well, nothing!

I want to smell like whatever cologne I’m wearing that particular day. Nothing else. And on days where I choose not to wear cologne, I want to smell like whatever body wash I used that day.

That means I need unscented products. Unscented face wash. Unscented shaving cream. Unscented balm/moisturizer. Unscented deodorant. Unscented shampoo!

Or, at the very least, I need as many unscented versions of these products as possible and the rest to use a subtle fragrance like lavender or something.

And, that my friends, is the upside to figuring out how to make as many of these products yourself as possible. You can save money and control exactly what they smell (or don’t smell) like!

So, you see, I’m trying to save money, avoid wearing fragrances, and am attempting to bend the universe to my will.

And if that doesn’t prove I’m a man, I’m not afraid to throw another rock at a kid.

Rocks are plentiful and so are kids with large heads.