Good day
There’s a deal in my bank value
(USD36.2mil)If interested reply for details,
Regards,
Mr.David (Director
Commercial Bank Ltd
Hong Kong)

Now, I realize most things that sound too good to be true are too good to be true. That’s why I so pleased this is not one of those times!

I’m rich! I don’t know how or why, but I am. Gosh, it feels good. And it’s a long time coming, too. Do you have any idea how long I’ve had this email address? Years! And do you have any idea how difficult it is to own an email address?

Having to remember you have said email address…having to remember the password for it…having to log in periodically and check for new emails…ugh…it’s such a hassle! But finally, finally, my hard work and diligence has paid off. It’s about time.

Not to be all sour-lemon guy or anything, but it irks me that’s it’s taken this long. Obama has been in office, what, four plus years now? Why has it taken so long for my windfall to arrive? Why have I had to toil in email-checking misery for four Obama years, waiting for my Obama payday to fall into my Obama-loving hands? Why, it’s enough to make me strongly consider taking my Obama Commemorative Plate off my fireplace mantel.

“His confident smile and kind eyes are an inspiration to us all.” Hey, Obama, how about less confident smiles and kind eyes, and more getting large amounts of money into my bank account in an expedient manner?

I probably shouldn’t count my chickens before they’re hatched, though. I mean, there is still the matter of my replying to Mr. David, Director Commercial Bank Ltd Hong Kong. I just didn’t want him to think I was to anxious. After all, am I really supposed to believe he only has a deal for $36.2 million? I just know he has another $100k or $200k he’s not telling me about.

I want that extra money. And I shall HAVE IT!

I’ve always believed our public education system was flawed (to put it delicately). I never understood why the USPS seemed so incompetent compared to UPS, FedEx and the like. I have always been fairly certain DMV workers were robots sent from the future to destroy my joy. And don’t even get me started on Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Or this guy.

Lately, my cynicism for all things government has crept into my thoughts on personal finance and caused me to reconsider my stance on the retirement golden goose for most middle class Americans: The Roth.

To put it in layman’s terms, I now fear Uncle Sam is a mean liar with a stupid face who will someday steal some of the pennies from my piggie bank, even though he promised it wouldn’t.

To put it in slightly less layman’s terms, I now suspect that even though today the Roth is a wonderful investment vehicle which allows you to pay taxes now in exchange for your assets not being taxed in the future (after you retire), this may not always be the case. Also, Uncle Sam is a stupid face.

In the past, I’ve always held true to the “do not put all your eggs in one basket” school of thought. In other words, don’t put all your money in one place. Spread it around. A little in stocks, a little in bonds, a little in real estate, a little in producing independent movies starring Bob Saget, etc. That way, if the stock or real estate market goes south, all will not be lost because, hey, you’ve got Bob Saget to bail you out.

I have used this way of thinking with taxes, too. Instead of getting all my tax breaks now (via pre-tax, traditional 401ks or IRAs) or all my tax breaks later (via after-tax, Roth 401ks or IRAs), I have opted for spreading it around. For my 401k, I use traditional so I can get my tax break up front. For my IRA, I use a Roth so I can get my tax break when I retire.

And it’s a good plan. Provided, of course, the government holds up its end of the deal and leaves my Roth money alone. I’m just not sure it will be able to resist.

With government budget problems out of control and not showing signs of getting better any time soon, things in Washington are going to get worse before they get better. Someday, whether it is tomorrow or twenty years from now, the government is going to look at all that money we middle class Americans have stored in tax sheltered Roth accounts and think, “Man…it sure would be nice to have some of that money.”

“No fair,” we’ll say. But the reality is, it will be much easier for Uncle Sam to impose a surtax of some sort of Roth accounts than it will be for them to, you know, get their budget in order. It’s just the way our nation is run these days.

So, what’s the solution?

Well, I’m not sure there’s a solution so much as there’s making the best of the situation. I have already stopped contributing to my Roth IRA. I’ll instead begin contributing more to my pre-tax 401k. And beyond that, I think I have to focus on ways to save money Uncle Sam can’t sabotage.

Paying off my mortgage early has always been part of the plan. I should make it even more of a priority. “Mortgage free by age 40″ has a nice ring to it.

Well, except for the being 40 part.

“Jedi Mind Meld.”

Boom. Nailed it.

Actually, as much as I love to poke fun at Obama, his “jedi mind meld” gaffe (where he irked sci-fi nerds everywhere by inadvertently combining Star Trek’s “Vulcan mind meld” and Star War’s “Jedi mind trick”) just doesn’t seem poke worthy to me. Obama’s tendency to wear mom jeans? Absolutely poke worthy. Him mixing up science fiction phrases? Meh.

Still, I kind of hope we get a sequel of sorts. Yesterday, Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky mounted a filibuster of Obama’s nominee for CIA director. The legality of whether or not it’s legal for the U.S. government to use drone strikes to kill an American citizen on American soil was/is the issue at hand. Sen. Paul and others want assurances it is illegal. Such assurances haven’t arrived.

How does this relate? Well, “drone” is a Star Trek thing. Really, I Googled it and everything. The similar sounding “clone” (as in Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones) is a Star Wars thing. Just imagine what would happen if Obama were to say the words “attack of the drones” in a speech. The heads of sci-fi geeks everywhere would explode!

It all reminds me of a bit on one of my all-time favorite TV shows, NewsRadio. It was something billionaire boss Jimmy James dubbed the “Geek Test.” Here is how it works: Mr. James would intentionally misquote a piece of sci-fi trivia (Example: “Well, beam me up, Slappy!”). His mark (in this scenario, sci-fi aficionado Dave Nelson) corrects him on his misquote (Example: “Actually, it’s Scottie.”). And then Mr. James throws down the “gotcha!” hammer by exclaiming “Geek test!” to an embarrassed Dave.

Part of the humor in the bit, for me at least, is the reality that Mr. James also had to know the real quote in order to distribute the geek test in the first place. The joke was on him as much as Dave.

So, what exactly did we learn from Obama’s jedi mind meld gaffe? That he failed the geek test? Does that mean the rest of us, those who recognized the gaffe, “won” the geek test?

Frankly, I think we’re all losers in this one. Obama because he is a horrible person, and the rest of us because we have a horrible person as our president.

Boom. Nailed it.

 Sorry I’ve been away for so long, everyone. I’m going to try to be better. Allow me to make it up to you by letting you leave me a comment in the form below. I’ll even waive my customary $5 comment fee!

To anyone out there who is standing in line to buy “Batman” movie tickets while dressed as Batman…

That’s as far as I got. I never settled on a punchline, but the ones I considered all had lighthearted fun at the expense of those planning to brave large crowds and sleepiness in order to watch a movie they could easily see tomorrow, next weekend or a month from now.

I canceled the status, and I’m glad I did.

This morning, I — along with the rest of the world — awoke to discover a gunman had entered a midnight premiere of the film in Aurora, Colorado, and opened fire. Twelve people died and dozens were injured. An unknown number of lives were changed forever.

The alleged shooter was a 24-year-old named James Holmes, who until recently had been a PhD student at the University of Colorado. At the time of this writing, authorities are trying to discover his motives, as well as secure his apartment, which apparently is booby-trapped and contains explosives.

In the days and weeks to come, we’ll undoubtedly learn more about this young man. We will also, hopefully, learn more about his victims. If we’re fortunate, we won’t have to endure any copycat gunman. If we’re lucky, our judicial system will hand Mr. Holmes the sentence he deserves.

And if we’re smart, we’ll all be reminded how precious life is and how none of us, no not one, know our final hour. No one walking into that Colorado theater, not even those dressed as the Caped Crusader, knew what was about to happen to them. None of them knew their Father in Heaven would be calling some of them home.

If they had known, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have spent their final hours at a movie theater.

And they most certainly wouldn’t have spent it thinking of “funny” things to write on Facebook.

Some women believe their butts are too small, their gold teeth should be 22k instead of 14k, and the tattoos on their lower backs are at least three sizes too small. Women who are not of the music-video-watching persuasion may have hangups about their weight, hair, height, and so on.

I feel for my lady friends and I sincerely hope my future daughters grow up in a world where there are not such ridiculous standards. With the recent news of Vogue magazine vowing to ban models that are “too skinny”, such a world may actually become a reality. (But probably not.)

As a guy, I have more or less been immune to all of this during my lifetime. Sure, in junior high school I felt pressured to grow my sideburns longer because Luke Perry, Jason Priestley and all the guys on Beverly Hills 90210 had sideburns two feet long. And, confused, I may or may not have believed the popularity of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was due to Will Smith’s large ears (thereby making me feel my human-sized ears were inadequate). But, again, more or less, I have been immune to the media’s mission to make us feel bad about ourselves.

And then I bought a home and (re-)discovered HGTV.

Did you know laminate counter tops are of the devil? Did you know kitchen cabinets bought in a store — cabinets that are not “custom” — immediately lower the value of your home by 700%? Did you know having laminate flooring is a crime punishable by a public flogging? Did you know popcorn ceilings are the real reason the Lord flooded the earth in Noah’s day?

I didn’t know any of these things until I started watching HGTV after buying my first home.

Turn on HGTV, and you see rich people with lavish tastes. You see childless couples spending incredible sums of money on homes with three-car garages and five bedrooms. You see Average Joes getting thousands and thousands of dollars worth of home improvements for free. And, occasionally, you will see a DIY project that’s actually practical.

It’s as if Bob Villa, the Kardashians, and the producers of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire had a love child, and that child grew up to create a TV channel.

Years ago when I watched, the shows I liked on HGTV concentrated on small projects you or I could do to perk up our homes, either for our own enjoyment or in order to help us sell our homes. One of the oldies, Design on a Dime, would show viewers all the things they could do to their home with $1,000. Designed to Sell would take $2,000 and, you guessed it, do as much as they could with it to help the homeowners find a buyer.

These shows and shows like them were informative and practical. And, once upon a time, they used to comprise a majority of the HGTV programming schedule. That’s sadly not the case anymore.

Today, HGTV offers us shows like Selling New York and Selling L.A., where we get to watch big-city millionaires complain about the use of marble instead of quartz, or the lack of a private rooftop deck.

We get shows like Million Dollar Rooms, where we see indoor bowling alleys, waterfalls in foyers, and garages decorated in custom, Renaissance-style artwork.

We get shows like HGTV Dream Home and HGTV Green Home, where viewers can win million-dollar palaces by entering contests.

We get shows like Color Splash, where we get to watch horrible, horrible, horrible design creations that are an affront to all that is good and holy. (Sorry, I had no real point with this one. I just hate this show so, so much.)

HGTV has gone from a channel devoted to helping the average homeowner improve their home to a channel that makes the average homeowner feel bad about their home.

Of course, that’s just my opinion…which means I’m probably right.

Update: During my lunch break, I saw a commercial advertising a show called Million Dollar Closets. If you have so much money your closets are jazzed up to the point they are worth millions, you need to find a charity. Or two. Or ten.

One of these explains my blogging absence these past several months. And the winner is…

I had amnesia!

Okay, fine. I met someone and fell in love. I have been so blissfully happy and preoccupied, I just haven’t had time for blogging.

What? You don’t believe me??

It’s true! We’re engaged!

No??

People, I’m telling the truth. I am engaged and getting married. It will be a short engagement and a Spring wedding!

You’re still not buying it? Look, people, I know I tend to be a jokester when I write, but hear me now: I am engaged to be married. Seriously. For real. It is happening. May the good Lord in Heaven strike me down if I am making this up. May I be smothered in honey and brown sugar and trapped in an elevator with a hungry Rosie O’Donnell and Michael Moore if I am making this up. May I vote for Barack Hussein Obama in the next election if I am making this up!

There. That should convince you.

Those who just happen to pass through and find this blog post are likely thinking, “big deal…who cares?” Those who have been following me over the years know this is a pretty big deal, though. Like Ponce de León searching for the fountain of youth or Nicolas Cage searching for a movie script even he thinks is lousy, I have been searching for what often seemed like the unobtainable: The one.

Last July, I found her. And on New Year’s, I asked her to be my wife. She’s the prettiest, sweetest, kindest, Godliest young lady I have ever known. And I have just been much, much too smitten to find time to blog!

That, my friends, is the truth. The honest-to-goodness truth.

But, for those who may be upset with me and think this isn’t a good enough reason to stop blogging for a few months, would it help if I told you the “witch turned me into a newt” thing was true, too? In fact, that’s how I knew my fiance was the one: She wasn’t scared away when I told her I used to be an amphibian!

I might have made up this last part…

It’s Halloween. It’s time for pumpkins, kids in costumes, trick or treating, and candy. It is also time for the annual outbreak of what researchers have named “Halloween Skankitis.”

Halloween Skankitis is an epidemic that used to only inflict females between the ages of 18 and 35, but now reaches females of all ages. It’s a disease that infects woman who are oftentimes perfectly normal the rest of the year.

What is it?

According to Dr. Kevin Philange, lead researcher of The SKOS Institute, it is “a virus that causes some women on Halloween to dress like street walkers.”

During the four-year study, Philange and his colleagues interviewed women from all over the country and asked them about the virus.

“Something just comes over me when the calendar says October 31st,” says Kim, a 31-year-old secretary from Omaha, Nebraska.

“The rest of the year, I am as conservative a dresser as you’ll ever meet. But when Halloween rolls around, I have this overwhelming urge to mimic Paris Hilton.”

Lisa, a 21-year-old college student from Nevada, agrees.

“I can’t explain it. On October 30th, I wear jeans and a sweater. The next day, I dress like a naughty nurse or maid. On November 1st, I wear jeans and a sweater again.”

When researchers asked Lisa why she chose to dress like a “naughty policewoman” for Halloween in 2006, she responded by saying “I’m not sure” and “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Though SKOS researchers were unable to discover how the virus is spread or why some women are suspectible to it while others are immune, they were able to formulate a theory for how the virus affects the women’s central nervous systems.

“We believe the virus causes these women to temporarily go insane,” said Philange.

“The insanity coupled with easy access to Halloween costumes, many of which are extremely immodest, leads to the outbreak of skankitis.

“The women are innocent victims.”

Critics of the study contend the risque costumes are not due to a virus, but to the fact the women who wear them feel emboldened on Halloween to dress more daring than they would any other time of the year.

Philange and his research team find such theories insulting.

“Any notion that these women intentionally dress this way is ridiculous,” says Philange.

“The idea that these woman wish they could dress provocatively all year long, but only have the nerve to do so on Halloween when everyone is playing ‘dress up’ is insulting.

“No self respecting woman would dress like a French maid or pirate wench in public on purpose. It HAS to be a virus.”

“Finally, a movie that gives people exactly what they want,” exclaimed critic Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times.

“For sixteen years, ever since Se7en teased us with Paltrow’s off-screen death, I’ve been anxiously awaiting a movie that would follow Se7en’s lead,” remarked Gene Shallot.

“I didn’t think I would live long enough to see this day,” sighed Larry King.

The film, which is about something or another starring actors and actresses who may or may not be famous, is being praised not just for giving audiences what they want, but for not making them wait for it. Paltrow’s character, “Beth”, dies very early in the film.

“THAT WAS AWESOME,” shouted moviegoer Keith Dugan as he exited the cineplex moments after Paltrow’s death.

“Feel my arm! I’ve got goosebumps!!”

I have had one relationship of significance in my lifetime. That young lady is getting married tomorrow.

Will tomorrow be a somber day for me? No, not at all. While this young lady is “the ex” in my life, she isn’t “the one who got away.” I don’t say this to be mean, I’m just stating reality. Not my perception of reality, but actual reality.

We were not right for each other. God’s hand was not in that relationship. However, He did grant me the strength and resolve to do what had to be done, which was to end things and send each of us back onto the paths He had intended for us — paths that did not include each other.

I hope, sincerely, the man this young lady is marrying tomorrow is the path God had in mind for her. I trust that it is.

As for me, after getting lost a few times (what can I say…I am directionally challenged), I am back on track. While it is still very early, I have a promising relationship brewing. This young lady is by all accounts the most precious human being I have ever had the pleasure to know. And the juxtaposition of her and the ex, as it relates to being a Godly fit for me, is like night and day.

Some people come into your life for only a season. Some are meant to stay forever. My ex was one of the former. I’m optimistic this new young lady is one of the latter.

So, as I have done twice previously (see here and here), I am going to highlight a few of my Twitter messages and, in a manner only I know how, explain them in thorough, nauseating detail.

You’re welcome, people.

Kind of hard being a tough guy when you’re drinking green tea. Out of a tea cup. Surrounded by women. At a tea party. While wearing a dress. – 3 May 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because when you’re as manly as I am, it takes a lot more than a tea cup and a dress to hide your tough guy facade.

The only way I could care less about “Twilight” is if Obama was giving a speech about it while standing in the middle of a soccer field. – 1 Jul 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: The “Twilight” movies are boring. Obama’s speeches are also boring. Soccer, too, is boring. [five minutes later] I’m sorry, where was I? I fell asleep.

Team Edward? Team Jacob? I’m for whichever team is planning a murder-suicide. – 1 Jul 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because if the winning team, after killing its foe, killed itself, the world would be free of both Edward and Jacob. I have no idea who these two individuals are, but since they are in the “Twilight” films I assume I hate them and would welcome their deaths.

I dreamed I was eating a giant marshmallow. When I woke up, the bag of marshmallows I keep beside my bed was empty! – 9 Sep 2010

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because it is a twist on the old joke about dreaming of marshmallows and then waking up to discover your pillow was missing. Pillows are not edible, which makes my joke much funnier.

Bill Maher turned 55 today. Funny, he doesn’t look a day older than ugly as sin. – 20 Jan 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because Bill Maher is an ugly, ugly man. Sadly, he compounds his ugly appearance with a personality that makes me look fondly on his grossly misshapen head.

The show “Color Splash” on HGTV breaks stereotypes. Specifically, the stereotype that all gay men are good at interior design. - 2 Apr 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because “the Color Splash guy”, which is what he is known by in my head since I have neither the time nor desire to Google his actual name, is a “professional” who creates the most hideous interior designs I have ever seen. I anxiously await an episode of “House Hunters” or “Get it Sold” on HGTV that enters a home that has been previously “designed” by “the Color Splash guy.” I am fairly certain the response will be something along the lines of, “This is hideous…there is nothing we can do here…best to just burn the house down to the ground.”

I’m reading “The Art of Manliness”, a book written by Brett and Kate McKay and not, as hard as it is to believe, by yours truly. - 15 Apr 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because yours truly reading a book titled “The Art of Manliness” is akin to Shakespeare reading Strunk and White. (That’s right. Special Kind of Stupid just made a Strunk and White reference. In your face, Lynne Truss!)

Fortune Cookie: “Love is for the lucky and the brave.” So, if I catch a Leprechaun and watch the movie “Leprechaun”, I’ll meet Miss Right? – 21 Apr 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Catching a Leprechaun would require luck. Watching the horrible, unwatchable movie “Leprechaun” would require the bravery of a thousand soldiers. Add these two together and the least God can do is let you find Miss Right. Right??

I believe I’ve found a new, better definition for insanity. It’s watching George Clooney’s inexplicable “Batman & Robin” at 1:00 AM. – 24 Apr 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: At the time this was written, it was one o’clock in the morning, yours truly was having difficulty sleeping, and the horrible 1997 Batman flick starring George Clooney was on television. I debated, for approximately two seconds, whether or not to watch it. Instead, I decided to hit myself in the head with a hammer and write the aforementioned Tweet.

Will “King of Anything” by Sara Bareilles ever get old? It’s a rhetorical question. No, no it will not. - 10 May 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because “King of Anything” is a catchy, catchy song and Sara Bareilles is my girlfriend.

I bought an electric toothbrush today. No more will I have to move my wrist back and forth, up and down, like a caveman. – 25 Jun 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Because cavemen, due to their tiny brains, still moved their wrists back and forth, up and down, despite the electric toothbrush being capable of doing the work for them.

What is a Pippa Middleton? Is it contagious?? - 30 Jun 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: I honestly don’t know. I’m still wondering what a Pippa Middleton is and why Yahoo keeps talking about it. I think I got a Pippa Middleton vaccine shot when I was a child, but I’m not certain.

In honor of Casey Anthony, I will someday hire a nanny named Zanny. Then I will go kill something. – 7 Jul 2011

Why this is funny and/or insightful: Among the many lies that Casey Anthony told after murdering her daughter, Caylee, was telling her mother the child was with a nanny named “Zanny.” Besides proving Casey Anthony was a liar, it also proved she was an idiot.

A far more convincing story would be saying Caylee was at the zoo with a boy named Sue, at the park with Calista Flockhart, or at the dentist with Dr. Crentist.

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

In an effort to get out their message of opposition to a proposed bridge project, and to ensure people would actually read their message, the group Americans for Prosperity put flyers disguised as eviction notices on homes all over Detroit. The stunt caused quite a stir as many homeowners panicked and thought they were actually being evicted.

“I almost started to cry,” said Detroit resident Antonio Scarpacci. “But then I checked my mail and saw Ed McMahon had sent me a check for $10,000,000.”

In related news, CNN profiled four homeowners who have not made mortgage payments on their homes in several years, but are still living in their homes. Nationally, it takes an average of 565 days to foreclose on homeowners who are in default on their mortgage.

When asked if living “for free” allowed her and her husband to save money and get on a firmer financial foundation, Kaylee Frye responded: “Oh, are you talking to me? I’m sorry. I was admiring these shoes I just bought. Could you repeat the question?”

The Dow Jones dropped below 12,000 Friday morning as the market is set for its sixth consecutive week of losses. The last time the market had seven consecutive weeks of losses was in May 2001, when the infamous dot-com bubble burst.

When asked for comment, President Obama replied, “Hey, remember when I killed Osama bin Laden with my bare hands?!”

And finally, in the aftermath of mayoral hopeful and pervert Anthony Weiner’s sex scandal, actor Alec Baldwin is considering a run for mayor of New York in 2013.

“Clearly, New York needs a leader of which it can be proud,” said Baldwin as he screamed at his daughter on the phone, contemplated suicide, bickered with ex-wife Kim Basinger, and acted out scenes from his box-office bomb Pearl Harbor.

“But since that’s never going to happen, they might as well settle for me.”

*These stories are true and the hyperlinks are legitimate. My comments, however, are totally fabricated and meant for comedic purposes only. Obama killed Osama with his ferocious kicks, not his hands. Thank you.

Those aren’t the grades I received in school. They aren’t the scores random girls give me in the “looks” department. No, these are the temperatures the past few days in my neck of the woods and the predicted, upcoming temperatures for the next week or so.

In other words, “my neck of the woods” is, literally, the surface of the sun.

It’s hot, folks. Super hot. Insanely hot. Inexplicably hot. And “best” of all? Summer doesn’t even officially begin for another three weeks.

That is why I decided to turn my home into a giant baked potato.

That’s right. To tame the intense heat, I have wrapped my house in tin foil. Don’t believe me? Just look at the photo to your left. That’s not Photoshop magic. That’s real. If you want to see a larger version, click here.

I got the idea after noticing how people would keep the interior of their cars cool by using windshield sun shades. The reflective material, instead of absorbing the sun’s heat, reflected it.

“If that works on cars,” I thought to myself, out loud, while a random girl handed me a piece of paper that had “100″ written on it, “it can work on my house, too.”

So, I went to my local Wal-Mart and bought every roll of aluminum foil they had. Then I climbed on top of my roof and got to work. The result? My entire roof now reflects the sun’s heat. And as an added bonus, aliens cannot read my thoughts!

Since I’m a trendsetter, I have little doubt this is going to catch on. I surely expect to see my neighbors climbing their roofs with aluminum foil in hand. And when they see that I’ve noticed their copycat behavior, I will smile and give them a thumb’s up.

Later, when they are away, I will steal their aluminum foil.

No worries, everyone. I haven’t lost my mind. That actually IS a photo of my home. But no, it’s not aluminum foil. Well, not exactly. It’s a heavy-duty radiant barrier. Since I am having a new, metal roof put on my home, I took the opportunity to make it more energy efficient. On top of my existing asphalt shingles goes the radiant barrier. On top of the radiant barrier goes 1×4 wood strips to create a batten system and provide the air gap necessary for the radiant barrier to work properly. And on top of the batten system will go my metal roof. The end result will be a roof that lasts me decades and will be even more energy efficient than a standard metal roof (which is already pretty energy efficient).

And, hey, as an added bonus, aliens seriously can’t read my thoughts.

Case in point: I need to buy a garden hose. Why? Because I have some weeds in my yard, and I want to buy weed killer you hook up to a garden hose and spray on your lawn. I went to Lowe’s last night to look for these items. Did I purchase said items? No. Why? Because I was doing research. I wanted to see what weed killers were available so I could research them online. Ditto the garden hose.

Yep, I didn’t go ahead and buy a garden hose because I wanted to RESEARCH WHICH GARDEN HOSE IS BEST TO BUY. A girlfriend/wife will be driven batty by this side of me, I just know it. So, it’s best I get as much of this house-renovation stuff out of the way so I can remedy this whole “being single thing” I have going on without fear of driving the future Mrs. Lucky to the funny farm.

By the way: Since I’m SURE you all wondering, I am going to buy Ortho Weed-B-Gon Max for my weed killer, and a Sears Craftsman Heavy Duty Neverkink Self-straightening garden hose. Why that one? Because Sears has a lifetime warranty on it. If it ever breaks down, I can just return it and get a new one. Sold to an overly-frugal American!

I’m a gentleman, so I’m not going to name names or be overtly obvious, but I thought it would be fun to create some fictitious dialogue that aptly describes a few of these “WTH” moments.

CONVERSATION #2

(She excitedly runs up to me.)

Her: “Hey!! I’ve got GREAT news!!!”

Me: “Well…great! Don’t leave me in suspense. What is it??”

Her: “I just inherited ten thousand dollars!”

Me: “Wow, that is amazing!”

Her: “I KNOW!!!!”

Me: “Just imagine all the things you can do with that money. You could pay off your credit cards! You could start paying back some of the money you borrowed from your dad. You could—”

Her: “—Buy lots and lots of Tupperware!!”

Me: “Yeah, you could…wait. What??”

End scene.

CONVERSATION #4

Me: “You’re remarkable. So remarkable I’m about to say something that has never been uttered in the history of mankind: God must have spent a little more time on you.”

Her: “No, it is you who is remarkable. Hearing your voice is like having angels from Heaven massaging my ear drums.”

Me: “How other women, after gazing upon your presence, fail to fall down on their knees and weep is beyond me.”

Her: “I wonder the same with you, my handsome Greek god. When other men see you, how they refrain from castrating themselves while shouting ‘my genes do not deserve to live in this man’s perfect world’ is lost on me.”

Me: “You smell like flowers.”

Her: “You smell like an intoxicating mixture of Old Spice and awesomeness.”

(five minutes later)

Her: “This isn’t working out.”

End scene.

CONVERSATION #6

Her: “So, how is your coffee?”

Me: “It’s pretty good. What’s this place called? Starbucks? I might have to come here again.”

Her: “You should, you really should.”

Me: “What did you think of the movie? I’m not sure Jennifer Aniston has it what it takes to be a movie star. She should just stick to TV.”

Her: “Really? I thought she was good. I didn’t believe Kevin Bacon’s character, though. He’s not hot enough to be someone Jennifer’s character would lie and jump through hoops like that for.”

Me: “Yeah, you have a point. Jay Mohr was funny, though. Do you remember him from Jerry Maguire?”

Her: “He was in Jerry Maguire? Hey, you’re right. He was good in that.”

Me: “Yes, yes he was.”

(five minutes later)

Her: “I think I’m bi-sexual.”

End scene.

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I speak, of course, of Paris Hilton.

The “news”? Her boasting that she is “the original.”

“There’s so many people out there who try to imitate what I do, but I am the original,” Paris told the Associated Press. “There is nothing like me.”

Now, I don’t want to get off on a Dennis Miller here, but I find it inexplicable that someone who has lived Paris Hilton’s life can actually be proud of said life. Let’s do a brief recap, shall we?

• Before most of us knew who the heck she was (oh, those were such glorious days), Paris was “famous” for being a hotel heiress and for, well, going to parties.
• In 2003, she had a sex tape leaked on the Internet. Later in 2003, she co-starred on a television show where she portrayed the character “Paris” — a spoiled rich girl who was incompetent in practically all areas. (Note: It was a “reality” show. She was playing herself.)
• In 2004, she released a music album. It was awful.
• Also in 2004, she was photographed wearing the infamous “Vote or Die” t-shirt even though she wasn’t registered to vote in the upcoming elections. In other words, she did not vote and (sadly) did not die.
• In 2007, she was sentenced to 45 days in jail for violating her probation in an alcohol-related reckless driving case.
• Also in 2007, a video was released that featured Paris saying a variety of ethnic slurs and derogatory terms that would have made even John Rocker blush.
• In 2009, when “swine flu” was all the rage, Paris wasn’t concerned about her health. When asked if she was concerned about the virus, Paris replied, “I don’t eat that.”
• She’s attempted to “act” in several movies. She’s won two “Razzie” Awards, one for “Worst Supporting Actress” and one for “Worst Actress.” The latter “award” was for the horrible The Hottie and the Nottie, a movie that ranks as the 35th worst movie of all-time according to IMDB.com and that grossed a grand total of $27,696 its opening weekend at the box office.

I could go on, but talking this much about such a loathsome individual makes me want to walk through a car wash.

Despite all this, Paris Hilton believes she has lived a life worthy of envy. Inexplicable.

And what’s most inexplicable is…she’s right. There are people out there who do envy Paris Hilton’s life. There are people out there who want to be just like her. It’s for this reason that, despite all the above, she’s “written” a bestselling book. And been able to start a fashion line. And a line of perfumes. And…

I’ve commented many times that I believe the society we live in is deplorable. We don’t respect our elders, we view the “sanctity of marriage” as some quaint notion from a bygone era, we do our darnedest to remove “God” from anything and everything, and we idolize people like Paris Hilton.

That we throw accolades and attention Paris Hilton’s way instead of rotten apples and indifference is one of our society’s greatest travesties.* I just pray she never reproduces. To quote Scott Weiland, in a song allegedly written about Paris Hilton, “Why don’t you spay yourself?”

Now that is the best idea I’ve heard all day.

*The same applies for Lindsay Lohan and anyone with the last name “Kardashian.”

“If I knew then what I know now…”

I stopped myself before even finishing the statement. Who was I kidding? I totally would have bought my new home back in November if I had known then what I know now.  Heck, I did know then what I know now, for the most part.

I knew my home was a foreclosure. I knew its owner of 21 years had used it as rental property, and that she had been a neglectful landlord. I knew the home needed work; specifically, a new roof. And I knew all this meant I was going to have to spend some money to get the house where I wanted it to be.

But I was okay with all that. Why, you ask?

Well, I loved the neighborhood. I loved its convenient location. I loved the fact it’s nice and quiet. I loved the fact it’s a street unto itself with no throughway traffic, so the only cars you see are your neighbors, friends of neighbors, or prospective neighbors hoping to see “for sale” signs. I loved the fact the neighborhood projects as one that’s unlikely, due to the homes’ prices, to ever “go downhill.”

I loved the fact my neighbors are homeowners (not renters) with families. I loved the fact my neighbors’ homes are nice, distinct, well priced, and the lawns are cared for and regularly landscaped.

And, yes, I loved the potential of the house itself. It was almost 3k square feet with 4 bedrooms and 2 1/2 baths — far big enough for any size family I hope to have one day. It had almost an acre of land — double or triple the lot size of most homes in the neighborhood.

But can I be perfectly honest? The main reason I loved the house and would buy it again if given a chance is…

It was a freakin’ steal!

I’m sorry. Did I shout? I didn’t mean to shout.

The reality is, while I knew my purchase price was a good one back in November, I didn’t realize how good it was until recently.

Three weeks before I closed on my home, a home down the street, unbeknownst to me since it had been taken off the market shortly before my home search began, also sold. It was 900 square feet smaller than mine. It had 3 bedrooms instead of 4. It had 2 baths instead of 2 1/2. And its lot was approximately 1/3 the size of mine. This home, which did not appear on the list of “comparables” when I purchased my home because its sale had been so recent, sold for 81% more than my home.

This home’s next-door neighbor has since gone up for sale. It is 500 square feet smaller than my home, but it has the same number of bedrooms and baths. Its lot, again, is approximately 1/3 the size of my own. And its current listed price is 88% greater than my home’s sale price.

(I suspect this neighbor loves the “81%” home next door since that neighbor’s sale price validates its list price. Conversely, I suspect this neighbor hates my guts. But I digress.)

There are more examples, but you get the idea. Okay, one more…

The home directly across the street from me is now up for sale. Yada, yada, yada…its list price is 94% higher than my sale price. And yeah, I’m most definitely sure this neighbor hates my guts.

There are catches, of course. I mentioned them way up above. These homes, I assume, are in relatively good condition. My home needs a new roof. And new flooring. And maintenance on the HVAC system. And a few other odds and ends.

Beyond money, this is going to take time. And that’s the real catch. I can put a relatively-obscene amount of money (for me) into renovating my home (say, 50% of my purchase price), and the amount I would have into the home would still be 20% less than the sale price of the “81% home” that also sold in November. In other words, I’d still have a good deal on my hands.

But time…that’s the killer.

I want to enjoy my new home, but to date I haven’t really been able to. My home isn’t a place I live so much as it’s a place I go when I want to practice DIY tips I learned while watching HGTV. But I can’t truly live there until I’ve taken care of the roof. All the other home renovation dominoes will fall once the roof is addressed.

“Well, what are you waiting for?,” you’re probably thinking.

“I have been reading your ‘roofer’ updates on Twitter and Facebook for seemingly months now…what gives?,” my Twitter and Facebook followers might be asking.

“Good grief, man, you bought the home in NOVEMBER! Why don’t you have a new roof yet?,” my mom is likely shouting.

“I am trying,” I (literally) shout.

And that fact, that I have been trying, is the aggravating part. Starting in December, mere days after being given the keys to my new home, I have been in contact with well over a dozen roofing contractors. I contacted every single (local) roofer that was accredited in the Better Business Bureau. I contacted every roofer who had a sign in a neighbor’s yard (indicating they had re-roofed that particular neighbor and the neighbor, seemingly, was pleased with the work). I went to the local supply company that has been in business since 1947 and asked them for the list of roofing contractors they recommended.

And you know what I have gotten for my efforts?

Jack…wait for it…squat.

One roofer I found in Better Business Bureau gave me an estimate that included a 725% markup on the price of asphalt shingles. I’m guessing he assumed I didn’t know how to get online and look up the retail price.

One of the roofers recommended by the local supply company looked at my roof a month ago and promised to get his labor-only quote (I would be buying the materials) to me as soon as possible. A week later I called him. He apologized and said he would have the info to me soon. A week later, I called him again. Same story. Two weeks later, I called him again. This time I received my quote. I then asked him to give me the list of supplies I would need to purchase. He told me he would get the info to me as soon as possible. I have now been waiting a week.

Perhaps my “favorite” roofer story comes from the very first one I contacted — the one that’s BBB accredited and been in business in the area since 1959. The one that re-roofed my grandparent’s home more than two decades ago. The one that once gave my parent’s a re-roof quote that seemed fairly reasonable. Here is the e-mail I wrote them:

Good afternoon. I recently purchased a home that has its original asphalt roof. The entire roof needs to be replaced, and there are at least two areas that will need new sheathing. I need gutters as well (this home has none and badly needs them). There are no fascia boards, so an alternative method for hanging the gutters will need to be used.

I would like to schedule a free estimate at your earliest convenience. Please contact me via email (xxx@xxxxx.com), which is my preferred method of contact, or phone (xxx-xxx-xxxx). Thank you!

P.S. Full disclosure: I am getting estimates from several roofers before choosing which is my best option. Thanks!

And HERE is the verbatim response I received:

Thanks, when your done shopping prices and would like to have a professional evaluation at a reasonable price.and not the cheapest.I would be happy to meet you.finish your shoping first.then I will be able to show you.why you cant buy by price alone.cheapest and.roof in the same sentence will never equal a quality product.dont be offended by my words.im serious about roofing.hope your serious about buying a quality roof system, [name omitted]

Now, the impeccable spelling and grammar aside, this response was curious due to the fact that nowhere in my e-mail to him did I indicate I was looking for the cheapest estimate possible!

Still, I kept my composure and sent a follow-up response:

Thank you for your quick response. My plan isn’t to go with the lowest price, but instead the plan that best meets my situation and needs. Price will, obviously, be part of the criterion I look at, but it won’t be the only one.

But before I weigh my options, I do need professional estimates from every roofing contractor I am considering. If you would like to see my home, discuss my roofing needs and provide such an estimate, please email me again and we’ll schedule a meeting where you can come take a look at my roof.

Thank you for your time (and, again, your quick response). Hope you have a great weekend!

His response? Just a time and a date. Literally.

4-6 pm thursday 9th or 16

No “I am sorry for assuming” or “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions” or even an “I am sorry I have the grammatical skills of a second grader.” Heck, he didn’t even ask me if that date and time worked for me. He just gave me a date and time.

Now, because I was young and naive, I didn’t tell this guy to get lost. After two days of deliberation, I e-mailed him back and confirmed the time and date. And when “Thursday 9th” rolled around, I left work early to meet him at my home.

Did he bother to show up? Did he give me a courtesy “I need to reschedule” phone call? No, dear readers. He did not. Six o’clock rolled around and the man was nowhere to be found.

The only roofer who seemed likeable and professional was by far the most expensive. His quote was $6k more than the quote from the aforementioned roofer with the 725% shingle markup and more than twice the quote from the lowest roofer, if that gives you a general idea. And his quote didn’t even include removing my existing shingles! So, while he seemed likeable and professional, he was also severely overcharging me.

All this has me severely disillusioned. As good of a deal as I got on my house, it’s a horrible deal if I can never enjoy it. And with the roofing situation stretching into month five (!), I have come to the following conclusion:

I am going replace my roof myself.

What do you think, dear readers? Is replacing my own roof a good idea? Should I have come to this conclusion months ago? What ARE the chances of me falling off my roof?

According to their press release:

“We are tired of living a lie. The world needs to know that we would not, in fact, walk 500 miles. And we would most certainly not walk 500 more. We would not walk these 1,000 miles just to be the man who falls down at your door. Da Da Da (da da da), Da Da Da (da da da), Da Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Uh Da.

Thank you.”

Reaction to the news was swift and negative.

“My world as I know it has ended,” exclaimed Keith Dugan, president of the 500 Miles Fan Club.

“That was my and my husband’s wedding song,” lamented Angela Carter of of Sitka, Alaska. “Does this mean our marriage is based on a lie??”

“I don’t know how, but (George W.) Bush is somehow responsible for this travesty,” promised President Barack Obama.

The timing of the news was particularly difficult coming on the heels of yesterday’s announcement from Chris Barron of (90′s alt-rock band) the Spin Doctors who said he actually has “no idea what a prince and lover ought to be.”

Okay, for those who don’t get any of these references, here is the YouTube link for The Proclaimers’ I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) music video. Johnny Depp is featured heavily, for those of you who care about such things!

What’s that? You haven’t seen it? You haven’t even heard about it? That’s okay, neither had I. But now I have seen it and, as you loyal readers of mine could probably predict, I have a few thoughts regarding what the babies are discussing.

But first, those who haven’t seen it need to watch it. And those who have seen it need to watch it again. Then and only then will you be worthy of reading my thoughts!

(Seriously, though. Watch it before scrolling down. Nothing I say will make sense if you haven’t watched the video. Yes, I realize most of what I say doesn’t make sense. But it will be especially true this time.)

So, what did you think? You did watch it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?

Okay, just checking. Now, here is what they were saying. For clarity, Baby #1 is the one on the left. Baby #2 is on the right. And for those of you who cannot tell your left from your right, I’m guessing you also cannot read. So…yeah.

Baby #2: “What did you do with my sock?!”

Baby #1: “Huh?”

Baby #2: “Don’t ‘huh’ me! My sock!! Where is it??”

Baby #1: “How am I supposed to know?”

Baby #2: “Don’t play dumb with me! I know you took my sock. Give it!”

Baby #1: “Look, I have my own sock problems, okay? See these socks I’m wearing? They don’t match.”

Baby #2: “What do you mean they don’t match? They’re fine.”

Baby #1: “No they aren’t. Look closely!”

Baby #2: “I don’t see anything.”

Baby #1: “What are you, man, blind? These are similar, but mismatched socks.”

Baby #2: “So…?”

Baby #1: “SO?!?!”

Baby #2: “Did I stutter?!”

Baby #1: “There is no way I’m going outside in mismatched socks. It’s not happening!”

Baby #2: “Hey, at least you HAVE two socks! Or, should I say, at least you have THREE socks!!”

Baby #1: “What are you implying??”

Baby #2: “I’m implying that you stole my sock and, combined with the two socks you have already, you have three socks!!”

Baby #1: “WHY would I steal your sock??”

Baby #2: “Who knows? I don’t pretend to understand the motivations of a sock bandit!!”

Baby #1: “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Baby #2: “Wait a second. You just flinched…”

Baby #1: “I what?”

Baby #2: “You flinched. Every time I touch this freezer drawer, you get a look in your eye. You hid my sock in there, didn’t you?”

Baby #1: “What??”

Baby #2: “Aha! You did! You thought you could fool me, but I have read your book, you magnificent b-word!”

Baby #1: “Okay, I’ve had about enough of this. I’d like you to leave. This is my corner. See that egg beater under your foot? That’s mine.”

Baby #2: “Oh, I’ll leave alright. But not without my sock!”

Baby #1: “You’re going to feel pretty silly when you open that freezer and don’t find your sock.”

Baby #2: “Oh, it’s in there. I know it’s in there!”

(tries to open freezer)

And scene.

I suppose it’s possible the babies were discussing something else. Their repeated giggles would seem to indicate as much. Still, I think the above dialogue is pretty spot on.

What do YOU think?

Did you know Special Kind of Stupid now has a Facebook page? Go here to “like” it. It’s what all the cool babies are doing.

“I’m liberal for one thing,” Obama assured viewers during his nationally-televised address on Libya at the National Defense University in Washington, D.C.

“That right there is a huge difference. (George W.) Bush does this and, rightfully so, you brainwashed jackals should rip him a new one. But I’m not him. I’m Obama. I’m your god.”

After twenty minutes of demanding everyone bow down to him, Obama reached under the podium and grabbed his Nobel Peace Prize.

“You see this,” Obama asked rhetorically. “This is an ‘I am Barack Freakin’ Obama and I can do whatever I want’ award. Does Bush have one of these? Nope, he doesn’t. Do you? Nope, you don’t.”

After wagging his finger at the camera for several minutes, Obama continued.

“Plus, in case any of you have forgotten, I’m black. The nerve of any of you pointing out how Bush originally went to war to intervene against an evil, murdering dictator, and how I am going to war to stop an evil, murdering dictator.

“You racists. How dare you. How dare you.”

Amidst chants of “YES WE CAN” from Joe Biden, who could be heard off camera, Obama ended his televised speech the same way he ends every speech.

“I can handle people disagreeing with me. I just can’t handle racists, which is what people who have the audacity to disagree with me clearly are.

“Oh, and God bless America.”

Did you know Special Kind of Stupid now has a Facebook page? Go here to “like” it.

“Hmmm. That sounds promising.”

When I heard David S. Goyer, the guy who wrote the story for The Dark Night and Batman Begins, was writing the story for Superman: Man of Steel I thought:

“Well, this bodes well.”

When I heard Nolan had handpicked the guy who directed Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole to direct the film I thought:

“Wait…the guy who did that owl movie last year? Really??”

And today, even though the latter’s casting was confirmed over a week ago, when I heard Amy “Cute as a Button” Adams and Kevin “My Favorite Actor” Costner had been cast as Lois Lane and Jonathan Kent, respectively, I thought:

“So help me, I better live long enough to see this movie in theaters.”

Kevin Costner and Amy Adams?

In the same movie??

Danny Devito could be cast in the role of Superman and I would still want to see this movie.

Rosie O’Donnell could portray Lex Luther and I would still want to see this movie.

Keanu Reeves could be the narrator and I would still want to see this movie.

Heck, the owls from that freakin’ owl movie could comprise the rest of the cast and I would still want to see this movie.

In short, I am going to see this movie.

And not even the Owls of Ga’Hoole can stop me!

Some refer to it as the ticking of the biological clock. I refer to it as a wonderful seller’s market filled with motivated buyers.

In other words, I am going to attempt to end this whole “being single thing” by making myself smell like a baby. This will cause single women to think of babies when they are near me. I will then propose marriage, they will say yes due to the loud thumping of biological clocks and…boom…no more being single.

My plan is two-fold.

First-fold: I will throw out the men’s shampoo I usually use and replace it with Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Shampoo.

Second-fold: Upon leaving the shower each morning, I will dust my entire body in baby powder.

The result? I will smell like a man-baby.

I can just imagine how it will go down:

Me: (Reaching for magazine) “Excuse me, miss. I just need to grab the latest issue of ‘Single Men Who Want to Have Children’ on the shelf right behind you.”

Single woman at grocery store: “Oh, it’s no problem.”

(woman catches whiff of an eerily familar fragrance)

Single woman: “I’m sorry, but what is that you’re wearing? It smells wonderful.”

Me: “Oh? Thank you, but I’m not wearing any cologne or anything. I guess this is just how I smell.”

(woman hears the loud thumping of her biological clock)

Single woman: “Do you hear that?”

Me: “Oh, you mean the loud thumping of your biological clock as another day goes by without you having a husband or children to call your own? No, I don’t hear anything.”

[End Scene]

I think the most amazing thing about this plan is I haven’t thought of it before now. This is genius. Simply genius.

Hello, my fellow admirers of everything hilariously funny and awesome! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am so glad that incredibly handsome Kev at Special Kind of Stupid has started blogging again. Those three months of sporadic updates ate away at my soul like…um, something that eats away at souls. Sorry, I’m not good at metaphors!

The past few days, when I received numerous updates in my RSS Feed saying the wonderfully hilarious and dapper Kev had begun writing again, my heart jumped out of my chest like grasshoppers fried in hot grease.

“Finally,” I said out loud to no one in particular, “our period of misery has ended and the attractive, stylish and majestic Kev has returned to us!”

(I’m not Kev in disguise, by the way.)

I don’t know why he stopped blogging regularly a few months ago, but I’m sure he had a good reason and we loyal Kev-followers should forgive him no questions asked. Hasn’t he earned that right due to his hilarious wit and impeccable facial features?

Granted, I’ve never met Kev. He and I are like two blue birds…who also have never met. But, whenever I read his wonderful words, I feel as connected to him as conjoined twins whose hands have been duct taped together.

Oh, sure, his absence hurt me. It hurt like your tongue hurts when you accidentally superglue it to a wall that hasn’t yet been sanded. But if I can forgive him, can’t everyone else? Yes, I say. Yes!

And what better way to show Kev that you forgive him than to spread the word of his awesome awesomeness?! Do you have Twitter? Follow him and then tell others to do the same! Did you know Special Kind of Stupid has a Facebook page now? Well, it does! Go there and “like” it! Don’t have Twitter or Facebook? Well, then, do what I do: Grab one of your bullhorns and hit the streets. People need to know about the amazing, good-looking, graceful and suave Kev of SKOS and they need to know now.

[awkward pause]

I am not Kev in disguise!

But if I was, let me say I don’t see how I would be able to pry myself from the mirror each day. Am I right? You know what I’m talking about.

Seriously, though. I’m not him.

Ahem.

No, of course I don’t mind that you opened my bottle of Old Spice Fiji Body Wash and smelled it without my permission. Seems like a perfectly appropriate thing to do.

But, why stop there? Surely there are more items of mine you would like to sniff.

Want to open this bag of baby spinach and stick your head inside? I won’t mind.

Have you smelled my blueberry yogurt yet? You really should.

What about this container of Vanilla Almond Milk? Does it smell like vanilla? Does it smell like almonds? There’s only one way to find out: Open’er up!

Oh goodness. Where are my manners? I haven’t asked if you’d like to smell ME yet? Let me bend down so you can get your nose all up in my hair.

What’s that? Why yes, that IS shampoo you smell.

I wanted orange juice, so I went to the nearby Walgreens. The closest available parking place was right in front of the Redbox movie rental kiosk. Since no one was using the Redbox, I perused the available movies. That’s when I saw Devil, a horror/thriller written, but not directed, by the aforementioned M. Night late last year.

The premise, for those too busy or scared to watch the below trailer, is five people get trapped inside an elevator. One of those people is, you guessed it, the devil. Chaos ensues:

Since this is a M. Night Shyamalan movie, there are several “twists” that take place. I don’t want to give any of them away, but:

• One of the people is revealed to have been a ghost the entire time.
• One person turns out to be a comic-book hero come to life.
• An alien that suffers from aquaphobia and is incapable of escaping from pantries makes an appearance. He is eventually beaten with a baseball bat.
• The building, which we had believed to have been built during the turn of the 20th century, was actually built in the 1970s.
• A stuttering maintenance man discovers a water fairy while trying to repair the elevator. She has nice legs, but inexplicable hair.
• Mark Wahlberg makes an appearance. He isn’t the devil, but he is devilishly boring.

Did I like it? Yeah, I did. It was rated PG-13 and was much more of a psychological thriller in the Alfred Hitchcock mold than a horror movie. All that to say, I think it’s a good scary movie for people who don’t really like scary movies.

But the main reason I liked it is because Mark Wahlberg didn’t actually make an appearance. I was just kidding about that one.

Yeah, I know. That’s a horrible thing to joke about. Hey, maybe I am the devil?

[evil laugh]

I know, I know, I know.

Save for a tiny blogging morsel here and there, I have been missing in action here at SKOS for practically three months. Well, it’s time to make amends. It’s time to start blogging regularly again.

But first, I need to catch all of you up on what’s happened in SKOSLAND these past few months. Prepare to be beaten over the head with 4,276 words of Kev-tastic information.

So, I kind of bought a house. Yep, I’m totally not joking. I feel kind of ashamed not writing about it before now — ESPECIALLY since I wrote four blog posts on the house hunting process (see here, here, here and…here).

It was a foreclosure. It’s a 2,900 square feet, four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath home with two .45 acre lots in an ideal, quiet, wonderful neighborhood. And if circumstances were different, the home would have cost me $80k to $100k more than I what I paid for it.

The catch?

Its previous owner was a neglectful person with horrific, inexplicable taste. The roof is 25 years old. The hot-water heater is 25 years old. The kitchen, including the pink rose shelf liner in every drawer and cabinet, is, yes, 25 years old. And if any of you were wondering how old the house itself is, I think you’ll be shocked by the answer: 25 years old.

In other words, it’s a bit of a project. But, when all is said and done, I’m going to have quite a house at quite a good price on my hands.

Oh, almost forgot. It’s haunted.

I visited Chicago for New Year’s. Yes, I know this isn’t new news. I wrote a couple blog posts about it (see here and here). However, loyal readers know I never got around to writing the third and final post about my trip. I left all of you with the revelation my right contact lens had popped out of my eye in Chicago, and that I had failed to bring any backup contact lens with me.

“So, how did that go,” you ask?

Not very well, thanks for asking!

If I had been capable of seeing a blind person with a seeing-eye dog, I would’ve stolen the dog. That is how aggravating it was.

I walked the streets of Chicago for two days half blind. When I needed to read something, I would have to close my right eye. The people of Chicago, no doubt, looked at me like I was a crazy person. And when they heard me speak in my deep Southern accent, after witnessing me clumsily walk around, I’m sure they thought I was special.

The low point of the trip was when I walked into a woman’s restroom at the Atlanta airport. I didn’t see anything, mainly because I was incapable of seeing anything. And, for that at least, I am very thankful.

Hear me now: From this day forward, whenever I travel, I’m bringing an entire case of backup contact lenses. And if airport security tries to stop me, I will make a scene.

I forgot to boycott the Academy Awards. No, that doesn’t mean I watched it. It means I forgot it was even on, so I failed to formally refuse to watch it.

I do wish I could have seen James Franco and Ann Hathaway bomb on stage, though. Next year, I hope the Oscars heeds my advice and tabs the following trio as hosts: Steve Martin, Kevin Costner and Amy Adams.

Steve Martin will entertain with jokes. Costner will enthrall us with “What it was like to pretend to kill Dane Cook in the movie Mr. Brooks” stories. And Amy Adams will just stand there and look adorable.

There are now three girls/women at Chick-fil-a who possibly dig me. The first one I’ve mentioned before last year. The other two entered the picture recently.

A friend had bought me a St. Christopher necklace. As I was waiting at the Chick-fil-a drive-thru window, the female employee, after handing me back my credit card, noticed the necklace and asked about it. Then she asked if she could see it. I said “sure” and, before I knew it, she was leaning outside her window and into mine to take a closer look.

Female friends have informed me this was an act of a woman who digs me.

A week later, I was again at Chick-fil-a to order breakfast before heading to work. I had my credit card in hand, waiting for the girl to ask for it, but she never did. Eventually, she handed me my food and gave me a friendly goodbye.

Now, I’m a frugal guy. I’ve often said “you can’t beat free.” But that’s not how I roll.

So, I told her, “You forgot to make me pay.” She gasped, laughed, and then thanked me. “I didn’t want you to get into trouble,” I told her, which was a true statement.

Every time I have seen this employee since, she greets me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. And she now calls me by name. She didn’t do that before.

“Good morning, Mr. Fakelastname.”

“How are you, Mr. Fakelastname?”

“What do you have planned for today, Mr. Fakelastname?”

If I was sensitive about my age, the “Mr.” part would annoy me.

[punches wall]

I had a birthday and no one remembered. Okay, that’s not true. But if any of you want to send me a belated birthday present, I wouldn’t complain.

Milk, bread, rice, noodles, soda and artificial sweeteners of any kind. These are things I haven’t consumed in about six weeks.

Hero? No, I’m no hero. I’m just a man trying to get in wicked awesome shape so every single Chick-fil-a employee on earth falls in love with me.

And…that’s all I can think of for now. I might think of more and add it later. In the meantime…

You’re welcome, people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eHarmony’s feedback was even more confusing.

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

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

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

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

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

“If I had the ability to control people’s minds, I would make you punch yourself in the face.” I didn’t actually say this to the very unhelpful Delta employee whose incompetence led me to only be able to obtain a standby ticket to Chicago later that evening, but I thought it. I think she could tell what I was thinking, though. At one point, she actually said, “Please don’t take control of my mind and make me punch myself in the face.” My, “I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about” response was, thankfully, very convincing. However, I’m afraid my smile did give it away. But I digress.

Faced with the reality that I was unlikely to be able to get on that later flight to Chicago, I called my dad. He travels all the time for work. And since he had a Delta Skymiles account, I used it when booking my original (now canceled) flight so he could get the airline miles. I hoped (HOPED!) he could call Delta and somehow help me since, to Delta, it was his account going through all this craziness.

So, I called my dad. I told him the situation. I told him my preferred list of alternatives, in order of preference, and hoped for the best. He told me he would call Delta and see what he could do. Ten minutes later, he calls me back:

Dad: “Okay, you are on a flight to Chicago that leaves (in about an hour). You have been bumped up to first class.”

I don’t recall my exact words to him, but think it was something along the lines of, “did that really just happen?” In the span of just a few short minutes, I went from pondering what it will be like to sleep in an airport terminal like a common hobo to pondering “I wonder what drinks they serve in first class?”

In other words, thing were looking up for ol’ Kev. Sure, there was still the chance THIS flight would be canceled, too. Until the moment I boarded the plane and we took off, I braced myself for this possibility. But, thankfully, that didn’t happen. My flight took off on time. I was on my way to Chicago.

Once in Chicago, I immediately had flashbacks to my trip to Minnesota years earlier. I expected snow. I expected cold weather. I packed accordingly. What did I find in Chicago? Melting snow and a temperature barely warmer than what I had just left behind in Georgia.

I was not pleased. In my suitcase was a black scarf from Gap and suede gloves. These were items I had bought years earlier for the aforementioned trip to Minnesota. They had never been worn. They had never been used. They had been neglected. If cartoon characters, they would have fit comfortably into the plot of Toy Story 3.

Ah, but Chicago was just setting me up. Oh, I wouldn’t get to see any snow during my visit, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t get to use my scarf and gloves. I would. And I thanked the good Lord I had those items with me.

But before trying to freeze me, Chicago had another surprise for me: Blindness.

Wind might be a kite’s best friend, but to wearers of contact lenses wind is our mortal enemy. Before this trip to Chicago, I had never lost a contact lens. Never. Never, ever, ever, ever.

(You see where this is going, yes?)

While walking the streets of Chicago the evening of day two, it happened. My right contact lens jumped out of my eye. It committed Harey Carey.

“Surely you brought backup contacts for your trip to Chicago, right Kevin?”

Shut up.

Um, I mean, alas dear reader, I did not.

But you’ll have to wait until part three to read how I managed to survive my trip while half blind. Since I care, I’ll leave you with a teaser:

At one point, I found myself entering a room filled with women washing their hands and, potentially, doing other things I am thankful I was not capable of seeing.

Yes, I’m serious.

Will Kevin be able to survive Chicago with only one contact lens? Exactly how cold did it get during his trip? What “room” is he talking about? To find the answer to these questions and more, stay tuned for Part Three.

Some people are “glass is half empty” types. These are the people that, when they find themselves with an umbrella in pouring rain say something like, “I guess I washed my car yesterday for nothing.”

What type am I? I’m neither. I’m the type that originally had a full glass of water, but poured half the water into a separate glass just in case something happens to the first glass.

In short, I am a planner. I think things through and try to anticipate the unexpected. If you have a contingency plan for every scenario, you’ll rarely find yourself in a “what do I do NOW?” situation.

I write all this to set up the background to my weekend. I spent New Year’s in Chicago. How or why I came about being in Chicago for New Year’s isn’t nearly as interesting as what happened to me while I was there.

I became, basically, a walking Murphy’s Law.

I take an early shuttle to the Atlanta airport. That’s what we planner types do. We get there early just in case something unexpected happens.

I get to the airport, briskly walk through security, go to my concourse and find my gate. Then, before sitting down, I stop by the Atlanta Bread Company and order a decidedly mediocre chicken salad sandwich and a bottle of water. Then I find a nice, quiet, secluded seat at my gate.

My flight isn’t for another 90 minutes. I prefer it this way. No having to rush, no frantically searching for my gate, no unneeded drama. I begin to eat my inexplicably bland sandwich when a fellow passenger makes a startling discovery.

“Why is this gate no longer showing ‘Chicago’ as its next flight,” he asks the Delta employee while pointing to the electronic board behind her. The employee makes a phone call. She then makes the following announcement:

Our flight has been canceled.

Remember the scene in Jaws where Roy Scheider declares a bigger boat will be needed? Remember the look on his face? That’s the same expression I had upon hearing my flight had been canceled.

Understand: I have flown only five or six times my entire life. I’ve never had a flight canceled on me. So, I didn’t know what to do. Visions of “oh my gosh I am going to have to sleep at the airport tonight” danced in my head.

The Delta employee instructed all of us to go to the service center. I patiently waited in line for my turn. Ahead of me I see fellow passengers who are successfully being rebooked on alternate flights. I calm down and think optimistically.

Then I get to the front of the line. There are two Delta employees helping passengers. Up walks a new employee, one who just came back from a break apparently. She says “next” and I walk up. And then I had to explain to her what happened. It took her a good five minutes to catch up to speed, and in the meantime I notice the two “experienced” Delta employees on either side of me, the ones who had been helping passengers on my canceled flight for twenty minutes now, kept saying “next” over and over as they helped passenger after passenger.

Meanwhile I am still standing there. Waiting. My helpful Delta employee kept muttering “darn it” under her breath. You see, every time she found an available seat on a different flight for me, one of the FASTER Delta co-workers to her left and right would swoop in and take it for the passengers THEY were helping.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty minutes. Despite being one of the first ten people on my flight to make it to the service desk, I was one of the last that remained. Eventually, my Delta employee, whom I can only assume was hired because Delta has a policy requiring it to hire a certain number of slow-witted people with substandard motor skills, asks for help from a supervisor.

By this time, the “best” they could do for me was getting me a standby ticket for a flight five hours later that day. Considering all the people, thanks to my canceled flight, who would be on (or trying to get on) that later flight, I did not like my chances of getting on it. So, once again, visions of spending the night at the airport danced in my head.

I did not want to spend the night at an airport. I am very particular about where I can sleep. Plus, what would I do with my contact lenses? If I slept in my contact lenses, I would wake up with a massive headache. And then, due to said headache and sleepiness, I would probably end up killing someone who cut in front of me in line at Starbucks. And then I would have to go to prison. I would hate prison. Those beds are probably super uncomfortable. And where would I put my contact lenses at night?

No, there just had to be another way. There just had to be…

Will Kevin be able to get on an alternate flight to Chicago? Is THIS the worst thing that happened to him over the weekend? Why is he such a whiner? To find the answer to these questions and more, stay tuned for Part Two.

December 19, 2010
10:17 PM

Dear Special Kind of Stupid fanatics: Your favorite blog has been hacked…by a HACKER! Please don’t injure yourselves. I will fix it. Soon.

December 20, 2010
11:19 AM

Dear Special Kind of Stupid fanatics: I’ve vanquished the hacker. His feeble mind was no match for my super, humble powers. The blog lives.

December 20, 2010
2:21 PM

Okay, the blog is HALF alive. Among the remedies I used for thwarting the overmatched hacker was upgrading my blogging software. It has come to my attention that a byproduct of this upgrade is a plugin I use for navigation is no longer compatible. So, if you click the “Blog” or “Best/Worst” buttons, or you attempt to do a site search, you will be throat punched by disappointment.

But, never worry. When I get home tonight, I will remedy this.

I will return your beloved blog to you.

December 21, 2010
9:43 AM

You can exhale, people. Things are finally back to quasi-normal.

Everything on the blog should be good to go. If you see something off, please do leave me a comment or shoot me a quick email. I will then remedy the situation.

I just pray all of you didn’t riot and burn down your respective towns during this SKOS crisis.

My brother, who loved cheese so much I’m pretty certain he dreamed of coagulation each night, has decided to become a vegan. Apparently, he watched a documentary on food that sickened him.

Initially, I assumed he accidentally saw a Michael Moore documentary and watched a scene of the walrus-shaped man eating a wild hog or something, but I was mistaken. He saw “Food, Inc.”, which showed animals being treated in less than humane ways. At least, I assume it did based on what my brother has told me. I haven’t seen it. I love food and would hate to ruin the mystery, you know?

So, anyway, he’s adopted the vegan lifestyle. Tonight, he was telling the story of someone who gave him a chicken biscuit for breakfast. At the same time, a trailer for a Nicolas Cage movie came on TV.

[BEGIN ACTUAL CONVERSATION]

Brother: “So I planned on just eating the biscuit and giving the chicken to [my dog]…”

Nicolas Cage hams it up on the television screen

Brother: “…but when I looked at the chicken, it sickened me. It actually sickened me to look at it.”

Nicolas Cage, playing a wizard or something, still somehow manages to overact in his scene

Me: “Would you rather eat chicken or watch a Nicolas Cage movie?”

Brother: “What?”

Me: “You heard me. Eat chicken or watch Nicolas Cage?”

Brother: “I don’t want to do either.”

Nicolas Cage smiles at the camera and then says something unintelligible

Me: “Well, clearly. But if you had to choose, which would it be?”

Brother: “I wouldn’t eat chicken.”

Me: “So you would prefer Nicolas Cage? Interesting…”

Brother: “This is…”

Me: “Second question: Would you rather eat chicken or eat Nicolas Cage?”

Brother: “What??”

Me: “You heard me. It’s a very simple question. Would you rather eat chicken or eat a stir-fry made out of Nicolas Cage meat?”

Brother: “That’s disgusting.”

Me: “Yes, I get it. You’re a vegan. Food is disgusting. Blah, blah, blah. Answer the question.”

Brother: “I am not eating a human.”

Me: “Ah, but see, we would kill him in the most humane way possible. That’s your hangup, right? That the animals aren’t treated humanely? Well, we’ll make sure Nicolas Cage dies peacefully in his sleep while lying on a mountain of pillows and Sara Bareilles singing lullabies into his ear.”

Brother: “…”

Me: “Come on, what do you say?”

Me: “Homemade lasagna with Nicolas Cage sauce.”

Me: “Green eggs and Nicolas Cage.”

Me: “A NCLT. That stands for ‘Nicolas Cage Lettuce and Tomato’, by the way.”

[END CONVERSATION]

Yes, folks. This actually took place. I pray none of you were eating stir fry, lasagna, eggs, a BLT or any other food while reading this. I also pray all of you are able to get the mental image of eating Nicolas Cage out of your heads.

Still, if you think about it, this would prevent us from ever having to watch another one of his films…

I love potlucks. Where else can a regular guy get to experience what it’s like to play a game of Russian Roulette?

“One of these dishes will have me praying for the sweet release of death in an hour,” you’ll say to yourself.

“But which one?”

That’s the mystery, my friends. That’s the thrill.

It’s why we play Potluck Roulette year after year.

With Foreclosure-Gate, at least at the moment, not as bad as many feared, banks once again have their huge inventory of properties back on the market. For a prospective buyer like me, this means there are some really good deals available.

Still, beyond a good deal, “location” has been #1 on my agenda when looking for a home. I want to be relatively close to where I work (I hate commuting). I want a nice, quiet neighborhood (I hate noise with a fiery passion). I don’t want to be anywhere near busy streets (I would like my future kids not to be hit by cars, thank you very much). I want privacy (I don’t want neighbors on top of me). And I want the surrounding homes to actually be nicer than my own.

That last one relates to the first rule of real estate: Buy a low-end or average home in a high-end neighborhood and then renovate the heck out of it. The second rule of real estate, by the way, is not to talk about the rules of real estate. But I digress.

Location being my top priority makes what I’m about to blog about all the more bizarre.

I have looked at several foreclosure homes the past couple weeks. One, in particular, caught my eye. It is a great deal in a wonderful location, but it will need repairs. The previous owner had used it as rental property before losing it, and the tenants clearly believed they were rock stars and the home was their hotel. Still, for the price, it is a good deal.

This past Monday, though, a thought popped into my head. If I was open to the idea of buying a foreclosed home that needs work just because it’s a good deal, why not consider a certain historic home that’s for sale at a great price (and needs lots of work)?

My parents considered buying the home a few years ago. It was built in 1868. Eight rooms in the home have access to a fireplace. It has pine floors all throughout it. It is over 4,000 square feet. It has almost one acre of land. And it needs some major, major work done to it.

They considered buying it, one, because my mom loves old homes. But two, they considered it because it was being sold at a very good price. They ultimately passed on it. Three years later, the home is still for sale. It is still empty. And the price has come down $70k since my parents looked at it.

When I discovered the reduced price during my online browsing of available homes, the bargain hunter in me took notice.

“Maybe I should buy it?”

Beyond the fact insuring a historic home and renovating it would be significantly more expensive than a modern home, my considering the possibility was especially curious due to its location.

The house is in a different town, about twenty minutes from where I work. That isn’t an especially long commute, unless you consider my current commute time is three minutes.

The main street in this town runs directly in front of this house. Seriously, it’s called “Main Street.” And while its traffic would seem like nothing to you city slickers, it gets a considerable amount of traffic for someone used to smaller towns.

And, running parallel to this main street, a mere thirty yards from the historic home’s front door, is a sidewalk.

[Begin story]

Having not seen the home up close in three years, Monday afternoon I drove by to see it. Off the main street in front of the house is a nice, quiet side street that makes accessing the home’s driveway easy and painless. I looked around the outside of the home, made note of the fact it look as though landscaping hadn’t been done to the yard in about three years, and got back into my car.

Pulling out of the driveway and into the side street, I pulled forward to the stop sign. To my right, the historic home. Directly in front of me, there is main street. I’m about to make a right-hand turn and head home when I notice a pedestrian is walking on the sidewalk. Since I am not a fan of running over pedestrians (unless provoked), I wait for the man to walk by.

That is when I notice what he was wearing.

The man was shirtless, but that isn’t newsworthy. What IS newsworthy is I didn’t notice he was shirtless at first because part of his torso was covered by the cape he was wearing.

This shirtless man, who was walking directly in front of a home I was considering buying and living in for the next 30+ years, was wearing a cape made out of what appeared to be an old bed sheet.

So, naturally, I opened my mouth and asked, rhetorically, “Is that man wearing a cape?” I knew the answer, since he was now standing directly in front of me, but I had to verbalize the words just so they would hit home.

“Kevin, this is your brain. Your eyes are not deceiving you. There is, indeed, a shirtless man with a cape in front of you. Now, close your mouth. You look like a fish.”

[End Story]

Now, some of you may see things like this all the time.

I do not.

I have never, in my life, seen someone walking down the street wearing no shirt and a bedsheet tied around his neck. And the significance of seeing such a man, for the very first time, walking in front of the home I was considering wasn’t lost on me.

There is no way I could live in a house with so much traffic, both the vehicular and pedestrian kind, directly in front of me. It would drive me batty.

Although, if this one day is any indication, it would give me constant blogging material

I have discussed this before, but I tend to view life as one big game of chess. In 2009, most people in my position would have greeted the news of a $8k tax credit for buying a home this way:

“You mean the government will give me an $8,000 tax credit for buying a home, which I was thinking about doing anyway? This is possibly the most awesome thing to ever occur on this or any other planet!”

How did yours truly greet the news?

“Meh. I’ll pass.”

Actually, there’s more to it than that. I had reasons. And to know my reasoning is to understand, and most likely become deathly afraid of, how my brain works.

The way I figured it, the financially savvy thing to do would be buying a home after the $8k tax credit window had expired.

The housing market was struggling. The economy was down. Unemployment was high. There were few buyers, but plenty of sellers. I am using past tense since I’m explaining my viewpoint in 2009, but obviously all of these issues still remain. In short, things were craptacular.

Like he attempted to do with “Clash for Clunkers”, Obama hoped a housing tax credit would entice buyers to come out of the woodwork and pump their money back into the economy.

And just like with “Cash for Clunkers”, the $8k home tax credit was a good deal for consumers IF they happened to already be in the market for a new home (or a new car). However, if the consumer would not have — for any reason — been in the market to buy a home if the $8k tax credit carrot had not been dangled in front of them, buying just to get the tax credit was an inexplicably-awful deal.

(Not to get too graphic on all of you, but I do believe this is one of the ways foreclosures are born. And here all of you were thinking a stork was somehow involved.)

Regardless of their reasons for doing so, I knew prospective buyers entering the housing market all at once would impact my ability to get the best deal. More buyers meant more competition. Would it still be a buyer’s market? Yes. But not nearly to the same extent. I theorized it was quite probable I would have to pay more for a home than I would have if the $8k tax credit did not exist. And depending on how much more I had to pay, the tax credit benefits would be minimized or even offset completely.

But, that was just a theory. Even if it ended up being true with some home purchases during the tax credit period, it surely wouldn’t be true with all. I very well could have gotten a great deal on a house and gotten the $8k tax credit. No, this wasn’t my reason for letting the $8k tax-credit window come and go. My reason for waiting was much simpler:

I wanted a veritable smorgasbord.

Remember the original, animated version of Charlotte’s Web? Remember “Templeton” the rat and his love song to the joys of leftover fair food?

“A fair is a veritable smorgasbord
Orgasbord, orgasbord
After the crowds have ceased
Each night when the lights go out
It can be found on the ground all around
Oh, what a ratly feast!”

The housing market, after practically everyone who was even thinking about buying a home in the near future had done so thanks to the $8k tax credit incentive, was going to be a veritable smorgasbord once the tax credit went away.

Think about it. There was still going to be homes for sale. Lots of homes for sale. And there was going to be even fewer buyers out there. A buyer, like me, with no home of his own he has to sell before he can purchase a new home, would be like a rat at a fairground after the crowds had gone away.

That’s why I waited.

I was reasonably certain Obama (ha!) wasn’t going to fix the economy by the time the $8k tax credit ended. I was reasonably certain, once the tax credit went away, people would leave the housing market and go right back to the woodwork. And, I was reasonably certain the market after the tax credit period ended was going to be a veritable smorgasbord to those like myself.

Fortunately, things went exactly as I surmised. There are homes in the area for 30%, 40%, 50% of what they were just three years ago. Unfortunately, as soon as I began the process of choosing a home, “Foreclosure-Gate” hit the scene.

I’ll discuss that nasty headache next time.

If you haven’t already done so, click here to read Part One and see where it all began. Click here to read Part Two and have your world rocked a second time.

Well, Lauren and I broke up. That happened a few months later, in April of that year. With the possibility of being married to someone in the not-too-distant future gone, the “should I buy a home?” question had new variables. So, I looked at the situation logically. And by “logically” I mean I created a spreadsheet on my computer and asked it: “Oh, magical spreadsheet. Tell me what to do.”

To my dismay, that little paper clip that pops up in all Microsoft Office products wasn’t very helpful.

So, I then drew up a list of pros and cons. The upshot was the following:

• While it had begun to slow down, it was still very much a seller’s real estate market. Any home I bought, unless I was EXTREMELY lucky, would be at top price.
• I had a student loan, credit card debt and an only-year-old car loan. It would be a heck of a lot easier handling a mortgage if I took care of those first.
• Financially, it would only make since for me to buy a home if I knew I would be in it a minimum of 5 to 10 years. As a single guy who hoped to eventually get married, I couldn’t say for certain I’d stay in the area that long.

That was the Summer of 2007. Since that time, a lot has changed. Namely, the stock and real estate markets crumbled and unemployment went sky high.

Obviously, not buying a home in early 2007 turned out to be a good (and, yes, somewhat serendipitous) decision. Instead of making mortgage payments on a house worth less than what I owed on it, I concentrated on eliminating all my debt. Before the clock struck 2008, my student loan and credit card debts were a thing of the past. And in a few short months, my car payment will be gone as well.

So, if I have mostly been debt free since 2008, why didn’t I buy a house once the real estate market crashed and prices were slashed? Why didn’t I buy when good ol’ Obama was offering his $8k tax credit if you bought a home within a certain (now expired) window of time?

Well, believe it or not, I had my reasons. In regards to the $8k tax credit, I deliberately chose not to buy during that window.

Why?

Well, I’ll explain all that in Part Three.

Lauren picked up a brochure this past weekend for a house less than a minute from where I currently live. We drove by it after work this past Monday. Lauren had already seen it a couple of times, but this was my first time. It was nice. A simple, clean brick home. The brochure said it had the same owner since 1972. Assuming the owner wasn’t a Manson relative, I considered this a good thing.

As we pulled away, Lauren asked if I wanted to set up an appointment to see the house. I said sure, so she called the realtor and set up an appointment for yesterday. Apparently finding a kindred phone spirit, Lauren and the realtor really hit it off. They talked for 3 minutes, which is about 2 minutes and 40 seconds longer than I would have talked. Still, she did find out some good information. For example, the owner was a 93 year old lady who kept her home very well maintained. No news on whether or not she was a Manson, though.

The Wednesday appointment was at 7:00 pm. After the meet and greet, the realtor told us someone had just made a bid on the house and that the owner had accepted it. She was going to show us the house anyway just in case the pending sale ever fell through. With the possibility of my facing a hard sales pitch from the realtor now gone, I was able to enjoy the experience.

The house looked very similar to my parent’s home. Same brick, same living room layout, same tile in the bathrooms, etc. It was even built the same year. Good location, a garage, a nice yard. I liked it.

It had a peculiar smell I could not put my finger on, though. That’s when the realtor told us the owner didn’t allow pets inside her home. That meant no pets had been inside for over 35 years. The peculiar smell? The absence of pet hair and urine. “I could get used to this,” I thought to myself.

All in all, the viewing was a good experience. The more houses I see, the better idea I’ll get what I want. Right now, my wish list is the following (the criteria this house met are checked):

• A reasonable commute to my work (less than 20 minutes). CHECK
• A house not on a busy main road with traffic. CHECK
• Garage for the ‘Stang. CHECK
• (Mostly) urine free floors. CHECK
• A porch with two rocking chairs (second chair negotiable).
• A large kitchen open to the rest of the house (not isolated). CHECK
• A dining room/breakfast area big enough for my antique table.
• A safe neighborhood (i.e. will I be mugged getting my mail?) CHECK
• Hardwood floors.
• Washer and Dryer INSIDE home.
• NOT owned by a Manson family member. CHECK

“Part Two”, 3 1/2 years in the making, is coming soon.

Allow me to explain.

Kevin Bacon had a small role in the movie JFK, starring Kevin Costner. This allows me, essentially, to use Kevin Costner to solve any “Kevin Bacon” trivia question. All I have to do is find the connection to Kevin Costner, and I’ve found my connection to Kevin Bacon. The fact “JFK” was an epic, 3-hour-long movie that featured appearances by everyone from Walter Matthau to “Newman” from Seinfeld, makes it usually pretty easy to find the Costner connection.

Need an example? Okay. Pick someone.

[silence]

Want me to pick? Fine. I’ll pick my good ol’, reliable punching bag: Keanu Reeves.

Keanu Reeves had a small role in the Steve Martin comedy, Parenthood. Steve Martin co-starred with John Candy in Planes, Trains & Automobiles. John Candy had a small role in “JFK” which starred, naturally, Kevin Costner. And, oh yeah, Kevin Bacon was in it, too.

See how easy that was?

Yes, easy. Too easy, in fact. Finding the connection some random actor has with Kevin Costner/Bacon has become so easy, it’s now boring to me. I needed a new game. So, I invented one.

I am calling it Six Degrees of Vampires. And yes, it’s as easy as it sounds. All you have to do is pick an actor and find how he is connected to vampires in some way.

Thanks to those insipid “Twilight” movies, vampires are everywhere. It’s gotten insane. How insane? Well, shows that aren’t even about vampires scream “vampires!”

Take the new CBS remake to the Hawaii Five-0 series from the 1960s. I watched the pilot this week. It was pretty good. However, the entire time I was watching it, I couldn’t help but notice the vampire connections.

The lead actor is some guy named Alex O’Loughin, who I didn’t recognize, but my mother told me she knew from somewhere. I looked him up and, surprise, he’s best known for starring in a show called Moonlight. His character? A vampire.

One of O’Loughin’s co-stars, Daniel Dae Kim of the iconic LOST, used to have a recurring role on Angel, which was a show about a vampire with a soul.

And the villian in the pilot episode, guest star James Marsters, is famous for his roles on Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the aforementioned Angel. I’m assuming it goes without saying he played a vampire on those shows.

During their final showdown at the end of the pilot, O’Loughin and Marsters duked it out — in broad daylight. The entire time they were fighting, I couldn’t help thinking, “Why are neither of them bursting into flames?”

But I digress. To get the ball rolling on this new game, which I’m sure will spread like wildfire, I’ll go first. And, I’ll once again use good ol’ Keanu.

Keanu Reeves had a role in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Hey, that was easy. I’m already finished!

I would be remiss, however, if I didn’t point out that Dracula starred Gary Oldman, who played Lee Harvey Oswald in JFK.

And JFK, of course, starred Kevin Costner.

You’re welcome, people.

That man? It’s me.

Bet you never saw that one coming. Eat your heart out, M. Night Shyamalan.

February 11, 1995

After never finding just the right opportunity to ask at school, I dialed a phone number that had been given to me by a friend on behalf of another friend. It was a girl’s number. “Amy” was her name. I would be asking her to the junior prom. This would mark the first and only time I asked girl out on a date via phone (as opposed to in person).

It would also mark the first and only time I connected with a girl right before Valentine’s Day. Soon thereafter, I would initiate what I now call The Thirty Day Rule.

Fall of 1996

When I was away from home as a freshman at college, my parents thought it wise to give me some newfangled invention I was unfamiliar with: a cellular phone. It was a Nokia 90210 or something.

It was red. It was ugly. And it was used maybe twice in the four months I had it. I don’t remember precisely what happened to it, but I’m pretty sure it met its untimely end when I hurled it at the head of my college dormmate.

Sometime in 2004

After seven years, I finally got another cell phone. It was the Motorolla t720i.

It was, to be perfectly blunt, a piece of crap. However, it is noteworthy in that it was the phone I owned the first time I heard of the newfangled googeblygook called “texting.” I was, as they say, unimpressed.

On August 24, 2005, I wrote a blog post about it at my old Xanga site. Here is that post:

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

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

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

September 2005

With the Motorolla t720i proving to be a craptacular phone, naturally, I went right back to Motorolla when the time came for a replacement.

However, the Motorolla v188 taught me that cell phones, even ones made by Motorolla, could be handy devices. In fact, I actually used it fairly regularly. Granted, I still loathed talking on the phone. But, I discovered that texting could actually come in handy in a pinch.

On June 27, 2006, I wrote the following blog post dedicated to my Motorolla v188. My grandmother needed a phone, so I volunteered to give her mine, which I knew was reliable and would suit her needs. This meant, of course, that I would have to buy another new cell phone:

I am without my cell phone today. (My girlfriend) has it. I should get used to not having it around, though. This past weekend, I purchased a new cell phone (pictured) that will be arriving shortly. I would like to take this moment to say goodbye to my phone (cue the Boys to Men song, ”It’s so Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday”).

Dear Phone,

We have come a long way, you and me. When I met you, I was in a difficult place. My ex, the phone before you, had taken its own life. I was angry and bitter. I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted another cell phone. But then you came along. You taught me that cell phones could actually be reliable. You introduced me to text messaging. Sure I think text messaging is stupid, but still. You were with me through good times and bad, through sickness and health, and all that other girly stuff. You were even with me through the promos for that stupid Pauly Shore reality TV show that were played over and over during Atlanta Braves games last year. I wish I could keep you forever, but I can’t. I’ve met someone else. She’s orange and can play music. I’m sure you understand. Keep your chin up, m’kay?

Sincerely,

Kevin

P.S. The leather case I gave you as a gift…yeah, I’ll be needing that back.

As of this writing, that Motorolla v188 is still alive and kicking. That badboy is a tank.

July 2006

My new phone, the Sony Ericcson W600i, arrived in the mail.

It came with a horrible orange faceplate, which I could thankfully remove and replace with a navy blue plate that came with it.

I picked this particular phone because it was a “Walkman phone.” You see, the idea of having a phone that could ALSO be my primary music device appealed to the mulitasker in me. This was common cell phone technology at the time, but it was like discovering sliced bread to me.

While its technology quickly grew outdated as the age of “smartphones” hit the world, it served my needs quite well. I went through a lot with this phone. I liked it.

It and three women helped me rack up a pretty penny’s worth of AT&T minutes over the next few years. I learned to embrace text messaging. No longer a pointless form of communication, texting became my primary form of communication.

“You mean I can relay a message to someone without having to actually have a conversation with that person? A conversation that usually lasts ten minutes longer than I WANTED it to last?? Sign me up!”

This phone helped me endure an untold number of gym visits. Its alarm helped wake me up in the morning, against my will, about four billion times. And its bulky size, along with the aforementioned gym visits, convinced me that carrying my phone in the pocket of loose pants is a bad idea.

Over a year ago, it began to show signs of wear and tear. If I didn’t set it down gingerly, or I accidently bumped it into something, the phone would get an error and reboot itself. With iPhone 3G all the rage at the time, I announced I would get one “once my Walkman phone dies.” I said this believing it was only a matter of days before the phone would actually die.

One year later, the phone was still pressing on. By this time, the iPhone 4 was out and wowing the public. While I was intrigued, my frugality — plus my promise to my Walkman phone — prevented me from seriously considering such a purchase.

Then my phone began to have what I called “the white screen of death.”

If I used it for more than a few minutes, the screen would get super bright. So bright, I couldn’t see anything. If someone texted me, I couldn’t tell who it was or what they said. I could write out a text myself, but when I pulled up my list of contacts I couldn’t find the person I wanted to text. This proved problematic, especially when trying to text ransom demands. And with phone calls, of course, I had the same problems.

My phone was dying. It was time, finally, for a mercy killing.

September 13, 2010

My iPhone 4 arrives in the mail.

It’s about 1/3 the thickness of my Walkman phone. I knew technology had come a long way in the past four years, but this was ridiculous.

It was so beautiful, I didn’t want to touch it. One, I was afraid I might drop it. And two, I was afraid my fingerprints might…I don’t know, make it less beautiful or something.

That night, I activated the iPhone. My old phone, the Walkman phone, had officially been retired. It was now a bulky paperweight.

So, I powered it off. For the first time in four years, the Walkman phone would not sit on the nightstand next to my bed. Instead, it sat in a box in my living room. The iPhone, my new phone, took its place on the nightstand. I set an alarm for the following morning and went to bed.

The next morning, I heard a strange sound. It sounded like a phone alarm.

“Wow, my iPhone alarm sounds just like my Walkman alarm,” I thought to myself as I reached for the iPhone’s snooze button.

Oddly, I saw that my iPhone alarm wasn’t ringing. The noise was coming from somewhere in the distance — my living room, specifically.

It was my Walkman phone. Even when a phone is powered off, so long as it has batter life its alarm will sting ring unless it has been turned off.

This fact was not known to me at the time. I assumed, instead, my Walkman phone was magical. And that it was angry with me.

So, if any of you ever find yourself in my kitchen, and you look inside my freezer, don’t be alarmed by the sight of a cell phone next to the ice machine. I have cryogenically frozen my Walkman phone until scientists discover a cure for “the white screen of death.”

We will find a cure, my friend. Oh yes, we will.

In the meantime, goodbye old friend.

For example, did you know that everyone in Pueblo, Colorado suffers from ageusia?* (Note: Ageusia is the loss of taste functions of the tongue.)

It’s true.

I saw an episode of Food Wars this week on the Travel Channel that had two restaurants in Pueblo competing over who had the town’s best signature dish. The signature dish?

The Slopper.

What’s a Slopper, you ask? Why, it is cheeseburger (bun included), placed into a bowl, and smothered with spicy green chili. One of the competing restaurants serves its Slopper with tortillas. On the side, of course. The other restaurant serves its Slopper with oyster crackers.

Just imagine, an entire town without the ability to taste anything. I wonder why scientists aren’t making any efforts to figure out how this happened? Is it genetic? Is there something wrong with their drinking water? Is Pueblo part of a government experiment too maniacal for our puny brains to comprehend?

I’m scared, people. If this can happen to the poor residents of Pueblo, it can happen to any of us. But most importantly, it could happen to ME!!!

*The residents of Pueblo, Colorado do not actually suffer from ageusia. I was joking.

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.