The Madman disproves evolution. Take that Darwin!

In the shower this morning, I was thinking about evolution. I don't know why. As I was pondering the nature of life and the universe, it occured to me that the theories of natural selection and survival of the fittest simply cannot be true. What led me to this inescapable conclusion? Backhair.

I have a hairy back. Not Robin Williams hairy but hairy enough for government work. (The government has all sorts of jobs.) If natural selection were a valid representation of the world around us, any sort of selection, natural or otherwise, would have kicked my particular kind of back out of the gene pool long ago.

I'm not proud of it but many years ago when I was in high school and college, I used to look at Playboy magazine. Consequently, I became intimately familar with the turn-ons and turn-offs of "bubble headed bleached blondes" (thanks Don Henley). Not once did I read a list of turn-ons that mentioned backhair. They all said that they wanted a guy with a nice smile and a sense of humor, both of which I've been told I possess in abundance. Inexplicably, I could count the number of real dates I had in high school without taking my mittens off. It must have been due to the backhair.

When I shared my theory with my wife, she said, "You know that's not right don't you?" I remain unconvinced. She also mentioned that as long as I'm going to talk about backhair, I might as well mention nosehair. I'm not sure what she's getting at but I think I have a pretty good idea.

That also got me to wondering about other qualities that I posess that would help disprove the "Theory" of evolution. (Remember kids, you can't spell "theory" without "the". You could probably use an "or" too.) I suspect that I have many other features which would help prove my theory. What self-respecting cave woman would choose a mate that's knock-kneed? Or has a spare tire? Or needed glasses? Or was about as useful on a hunt as a bag of rats?

The only logical explanation (to me anyway) is that Darwin was absolutely nuts. Look at the facts:

1. He comes up with a crazy theory of evolution.
2. He travels on a ship named after a hyperactive dog. Seriously, who names their boat after a beagle? I think I'm going to name my next boat the HMS Labradoodle.
3. There is no #3.
4. If there's no #3, then this one is really pointless.

I can't wait to see my name in Kansas high school textbooks everywhere. Well, not everywhere but at least in Kansas. You know what I mean.

Kevin's Guide to Home Improvement

1. Buy a better house.

Decisions. Decisions.

Making decisions is getting harder by the minute. The number of choices for any given decision seems to be growing geometrically. If you don't speak math, geometrically means " a metric buttload". The most obvious manifestation of this is television channels. Everyone that grew up in the 60's had exactly 4 channels to watch if you included PBS. Now, through the magic of satellite TV, I have 4 channels devoted specifically to Ethiopian midget porn.

My mother-in-law bought us a really cool Christmas present. It's an electric mattress pad. It's great on a cold night to get into a nice warm bed. The problem with it is the number of settings that it has. If the mattress pad people had asked me, I would have told them that Low, Medium and High would have been sufficient. They did not ask me. Apparently, whoever they asked thought that no mattress warmer would be complete without TWENTY different settings. I simply cannot handle that many choices. I lie awake at night with my pad set on 17 wondering if I might not be more comfortable if I turned it up to 18. If I turn it down to 16, will I get hypothermia? These are not decisions that you can take lightly.

I got my first bicycle when I was in 1st grade. It had one gear. It got stolen. I had another bike in 6th grade that also only had one gear. It got stolen too. By the time I was in high school, I finally had a 10 speed. Surprise! It got stolen too. At this very moment, there are three bicycles sitting in my garage that have a combined total of 57 gears. If I could pay someone to steal them from me, I would. Not uncoincidentally, I have a car in the same category.

I golf. Badly. Seriously. I'm a bad golfer. I love it but I stink at it. The rules of golf state that you can carry no more than 14 clubs in your bag. Naturally, I carry 14. Sometimes 15. I actually use 3. The perverse thing about it is that if I had more sleeves in my bag, I'd buy more clubs to not use.

Gotta go. Monk is on. I think this is the one where you know who murdered the guy but you don't know how Monk is going to prove that the bad guy actually did it. Please don't spoil the ending for me.