******************ATTENTION!********************
Dear Kevin's Vent Readers,
I'm sorry that the first act in my new job has to be of such a controversial nature but the
powers that be here at Hossbossproductions felt that some official statement needed to be
made concerning Kevin's month-long disappearance. It seems that my predecessor was incorrect
in predicting a total mental breakdown, but there was the tiniest of dark patches and Kevin CHOSE
to enter Goldenbrook Psychiatric Hospital on a strictly voluntary basis where he gathered himself,
spent a considerable amount of time meditating, and discussing the merits of various literary works
with Diane Chambers. I have heard whispers of his madness in the hallways here and certain peoples'
opinion that I won't be able "to handle" this position. Let it be known that my previous job was the
PS for Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and I only resigned after the dubious results of his
recent re-election compelled me to leave my home country and come to America. Having read Kevin's
Vent while living in Tehran (where he is immensely popular) and feeling myself irresistibly drawn to his
deep-rooted honesty, I can only be proud to be working under him and know he will come back with a
vengeance, defeat the evil opposition who want to destroy this world, and unify humankind like Neo,
only with a pollysyllabic vocabulary yet minus the stylish wardrobe. And please do not believe the right
wings' assertion that Kevin is not an American citizen and was actually born in Kenya for it is completely
devoid of truth. Thank you for your patience.
Sincerely,
Duarf A'mai
Kevin's Third (And Final) Press Secretary
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No high school student wants to work. Hell, I didn't even want to get out of bed to go to school, and
wouldn't until I heard Martin Gruner tossing pebbles off my bedroom window. Why didn't he just honk?
Because my elderly neighbor told him he couldn't and she was pretty terrifying which was why he had to
resort to rock gathering at 8am and why I had to get him stoned on the way to school at least three days
a week to alleviate his aggravation and agree to keep driving me. But I digress... Maybe you were one of
those kids whose parents bought a car for and kept well-funded to purchase eighths and weekend twelve-
packs but I was on my own in terms of financially providing for my medicinal/extra-curricular activities.
Which is how I came about being under the employ of one Service Merchandise. The (Rhetorical) Question
of the Week (which you might not recall since it was asked about the same time the girdle was invented)
was Worst Job You've Ever Had, and trust me, this was no easy decision. What tilted the scales towards
"SM" were these undeniable facts:
1) I had to wear a tie. What 17-year-old kid wants to wear one of those choke-hold sadists? To attempt
to cut down on the discomfort I shrewdly purchased two state of the art clip-on ties. Savvy, I know.
2) I worked in the pick-up/return department. Now, the pick-up part of this equation wasn't too hellish,
however, often times a customer would order an item and the guys working in warehouse would be incapable
of locating said merchandise and we would catch an earful as the conveyor belt slowly carried OTHER items
down to us, which was all the more galling as I envisioned those tie-less assholes up in the warehouse smoking
cigarettes and pipe loads and throwing a frisbee around. No, the truly nightmarish part was the return aspect
of this finely tuned machine. NOBODY is happy when returning something to a store, especially when it's some
piece of shit electronic equipment they knew they shouldn't have been purchasing in the first place since it
was 50% cheaper than any other store and we all know we get what we pay for even if we sometimes close
our eyes, cross our fingers, tap our heels together twice, and silently send a prayer to The 50%-Off-A-Piece-
of-Shit-Electronics Fairy. Yet, telling these customers, "Hey, did you really expect this to work?" wasn't a
viable option so I'd have to locate the proper return forms and manipulate the appropriate re-imbursement
channels, unless of course it was a real numbskull who didn't want their money back and were willing to roll
the dice on another model. Then we'd be back to square one relying on the stoned frisbee-golfers up in the
warehouse.
3) My boss was an older, creepy gentleman named Mr. Bedrosian who for the entire 4-6 months I worked
there wore a band-aid over his left cheek. He would be up my ass every shift for not adhering to the 15-
minute break policy but he failed to grasp what an elaborate break system I had at that early juncture of my
professional career. I required some adequate sustenance after expanding that much energy loathing every
person that walked up to my counter, however I wasn't actually going to spend MY money to acquire these
necessary provisions. Luckily, my friend was working as a bagger at the Safeway next door so I would pop
over, stuff a couple snacks in my pocket, then stroll through the line with nothing in my hands under the
pretense I was there to chat with my pal. He would glare at me for the 2-3 minutes I would ramble on
about God knows what, then slap him on the back, head back to work and plop down in our breakroom.
Unfortunately, it took the allotted 15-minutes just to shoplift my Hostess Cherry Pie and Teriyaki Beef Jerky
so my breaks tended to average between 30-40 minutes.
As you probably envisioned, one day I walked in and attempted to clock in by typing the last four digits of
my social into the computer to no avail. I tried this two or three times and then, I wouldn't say a light bulb
went on in my head, but there was a definite spark, and certainly cleared up the question I had of why every
employee had failed to make eye contact with me when I passed them by and instead chose to stare at their
loafers, at which time Mr. B ushered me into his office. He began hemming and hawing about the length of my
breaks until I interrupted him by asking if I was fired. I wasn't trying to make it easy for him, it was just a
Friday night, my friends were going to the Giants game and I was afraid they were going to leave before I could
get home and take my clip-on tie off (yes, I made it to the game). As I was about to exit his office I stopped,
turned, and asked him what was under his band-aid. I didn't get a response. It still tortures me to this day.
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Before I move on I'd like to set the record straight. I went almost an entire month without having a day off
which is the one and only reason I've been missing from your lives recently. Why these Hossboss bastards
insist on hiring new press secretaries, with names I can't pronounce, and have them concoct these wild
stories of my mental disintegration is beyond me. Actually, it's not, I'm sure it has EVERYTHING to do with the
ongoing litigation that continues to darken the Vent HQ doorstep. Anyway... I suppose I should address an
inaccuracy that occurred in my last missive and which I figured would be pointed out by some ne'er-do-weller
and I wasn't disappointed. If you recall, I brought up the atrocities that had occurred in Peru and bemoaned
the fact none of the major media outlets had reported it. Leave it to that peppy and precocious journalist
Mindy Kay to confront me and further my education by informing me she had heard this story on NPR,
the BBC and read about it in The New York Times. You might remember her, she made it into the vent
last November when Obama's victory caused her to think back on how excited she was when The Wall came
down and the fall of communism made her want to re-read "Animal Farm." Once again, so as not to do her a
disservice, I'll just directly quote her. "People love to complain about the media. And that is great; it keeps the
media on its toes and teaches them what readers want. But don't complain that you didn't receive the news that
was not only waiting for you for 24 hours in a newspaper a block from your apartment, but was online for free,
as well as on NPR for free. You have to do some of the work; you can't expect reporters to come over to your
apartment, read you the news, give you a blowjob and make you a sandwich. It doesn't work that way, my dear.
You need to walk, subscribe or turn on your radio." I have to admit that wounded me to my very core. After all
these years, I thought Mindy knew me better than that. I would NEVER, EVER, expect a reporter to come over
and read me the news, give me a blowjob then make me a sandwich. Jesus, I can make my own sandwich.
Those of you who do not live in the greater New York area are most likely unaware of the abnormal amount of
rainfall we've gotten this summer. It rained 23 out of 30 days in June and July was almost as wet. Luckily,
August has been better. Is it because I don't like the rain? Not at all. In fact, I appreciate how much it has
cut down on the humidity. Is it because I believe there's never an excuse for a man to use an umbrella and
don't like it when I get drenched? Nope, since that is one of my credos I always good-naturedly accept any
instance of being saturated. Well then, what is it Kevin? So glad you asked. It's these oblivious and foul
creatures who DO believe in umbrellas yet fail to realize they have these protruding steel rods at the end of
them which can put your eye out if you're not paying attention and, like me, batting any umbrella that comes
near your face. And if you listen to your IPod while using an umbrella I want you to kill yourself. Not kidding.
Pop a cyanide pill.
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Stoning of the Week: You're probably thinking that the above cited umbrella users would've been a good
choice for this week's chucking of granite, and they were, until "American Idol" forced its dirty way into my
life last week. Initially, Paula Abdul was going to be our victim since I was disgusted to read she was
demanding a raise from the $4 million she made last year up to $10 million this year. I couldn't fuckin'
believe she was actually paid that amount to do her little dimpled routine. So when I heard she had been
turned down and wouldn't be on the show next year I felt an emotion that people would probably describe
as happiness. That lasted for all of about 48 hours until I saw that Simon Cowell had just had his salary
upped from $36 million a year to $45 million. I remember thinking, that can't be right, it has to be a misprint.
But it wasn't. That cheeky bastard just signed a two-year, $90 million contract. To do what? His little
bitchy schtick of telling people they suck? Christ, I do that every goddamn day. So I was then absolutely
revolted to find myself thinking, Paula deserves $10 million if Simon is getting $45 million. No sooner did that
thought flash across my mental screen that I was searching for some cyanide pills of my own. So do me
a favor and stone me in addition to every and anyone affiliated with "American Idol" because I just can't take
it anymore.
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Sports Thought of the Week: Well how could it not involve Michael Vick? I'm willing to bet I'm going to
take this in a different direction than you're expecting. And that's due to the fact I think the man has
done his time and should be left alone. I don't want to be berated by any of you PETA people either. No
one loves animals more than me, particularly dogs. When I wrote some time back that I loved my late dog
Buddy more than 99% of the population, that was the flat-out truth. I can't even conceive how humans could
pit animals against one another, and then torture them after the fact. However, beyond doing his time,
Vick has also lost over a hundred million dollars. You're thinking, "Good!" and I agree, but enough is enough.
Instead of these people picketing outside of the Eagles training camp how about they go to the Rams or Browns
training camps and picket Leonard Little or Donte Stallworth? Both of these men killed someone while
drinking and driving and never spent a day in prison. Better yet, figure out where these other dog-fighting
felons are employed and go to their places of work and demonstrate there. Except there'll be no cameras
for you to be recorded on. And they might not be in the best neighborhoods. Well, this should go over
like a fart in an elevator.
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Worst Commercial of the Week: I haven't been able to watch much TV lately (because I've been working,
not because Goldenbrook doesn't have cable) so I didn't know if I could even come up with a nominee
for this vent but, lo and behold, I was about to doze off last night when Jamie Lee Curtis popped on-screen
pitching Activia. You know, that yogurt that conveniently regulates women. I learned that after only two
weeks you can become regular for the entire summer. This is just another aspect of the female body
that absolutely perplexes me. I don't know how many women in my life have told me they only defecate
once every few days. I'll never understand it. I can have a single cup of coffee and a banana and be
sprinting for porcelain. Don't women drink Guinness? Why the hell am I discussing this? Once again,
I curse this addition to the vent.
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(Rhetorical) Question of the Week: Are cellphones responsible for causing the complete dumbing down
of our civilization?
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Why Kevin's A Fuckin' Idiot: Like yourself, there have been a few times during this vent that I thought,
Hmmmm.... this would be good material for my final segment. Such is my lot in life. Yet, when
reminiscing about my high school job career I couldn't help but think of this tasty little morsel for your
consumption. During my senior year of high school, after the botched Service Merchandise tenure but
before working for Little Lucca's Delicatessen, I worked in an office for my mother. It was an evil company
called Datus and they basically compiled statistical information regarding hospitals that they in turn sold
to them. Because hospitals need to know who their target demographic is too. You can't just expect
people to randomly get sick or have some horrific accident and throw you some business. Anyway, my
job was the most menial and mindless job ever, stamping numbers on one page after another. Don't
ask me why. I'd rather been screwing caps on toothpaste bottles than doing this. Needless to say, I used
to get stoned off my gourd before going to work after school so I wouldn't act on my urge to hurl myself
off the roof down onto my mom's unsuspecting green Volvo. Most mornings during that time, while I
was awaiting the aforementioned pebbles to ping off my window letting me know it was time to get up,
my mother would stick her head in my room so as to ascertain the state of the stubble on my face.
You see, one cannot stamp sequential numbers on thousands of pages of mind-numbing statistics if
they are not clean shaven, especially if said employee is the son of one of the managers. It used to drive
me fucking bonkers to have her yelling at me to get up and shave when I was attempting to get those last
precious minutes of shut-eye, especially on Fridays as I liked to have that hip, Don Johnson, three-day stubble
going into the weekend to further my chances of deflowering unsuspecting Catholic girls with a soft spot
for "Miami Vice." This went on until that fateful Friday where she once again interrupted my early morning
reverie by ordering me to take a razor to my face. However, this morning I wasn't budging. So it went until
she said, "Shave or your fired!" And that is how, ladies and gentlemen, I was canned by my own mother
while lying in bed at 8am. You can make your checks payable to Kevin Colgan. Thank you.
wanna rip on Kevin? Tell him what you feel. Email him here