The Humdrum Phenomenon of a Kevin: A Study in Mediocrity

Do you sometimes think that day in and day out, you are just slogging through the motions, absently wiping shredded wheat off your chin while staring at your computer in a daze, effortlessly waiting to be spoon fed your entertainment by the happenings on your screen?  Yeah.  I sometimes think you are, too.

Well, pal, today, instead of presenting a soliloquy about the infinite wisdom that can be found staring into Sherri Shepherd's heaving bosom or engaging in yet another debate regarding whether Swiss Cake Roll theft constitutes attempted manslaughter, I think that you should partake in some serious sociological analysis.  Today, you will be ruminating upon a fascinating global circumstance.   Today, we shall analyze the world's silent understanding that is The Blah of Kevin.

It's been an unspoken epidemic.  Until now.  Hey, friend:  having a kid?  Congratulations.  That's really swell.  Hey, amigo:  wanna make sure your spawn thrives in a life of substantial blandness and a case of general non-offensive averageness?  Okay, great.  Name him Kevin.  It's true, yo.  Kevins could not be any more blase, any more just plain fine if they tried.   Let's go to the (proverbial) tape:

O

Hi.  I'm Kevin Jonas, the middle member of the Jonas Trifecta.  I'm not bothering you, am I?  Good.  You probably couldn't have picked me out of a lineup, am I right?  I look like every other guy that was in your Intro to Econ class.  I'm two parts uninteresting appearance, three spoonfuls of forgettable singing voice, and a dash of non-ironic virginity until my unnoticed marriage to a pleasant looking girl.  Do you like my plaid shirt? 

I

It's me, Kevin Arnold from the Wonder Years. I sure am affable, aren't I?  

I

 Kevin Bacon here.  I've had full frontal in one hundred sixteen and a half films.  Do you remember what my dong looks like?  Yeah.  Me neither.  I'm sure it's fine.

O

I'm medium amounts of funny in a nice, tall, lackluster package known as Kevin Nealon.  Thanks for tuning into to my annual funniest commercials of the year special last year until your wife changed the channel to Bravo.  That was great.  Hey.  Have a good afternoon.

I'm Kevin Something.  Remember when I was on American Idol?  I didn't think so.

I

I'm Kevin Nash, one of the least interesting characters to come out of wrestling since Jake the Snake Roberts.  What's new with me?  Hmmm.  I got a staph infection in 1999.  I don't know.  I've been thinking about taking a cruise in a few months. 

You see what I mean.  What's that?  Why are nine of you shouting, like, "What about Kevin Garnett?" and, "What the crap, you rectal fissure; K-Fed is the bomb, and you suck!"  Look.  The Kevin thing is a rule.  Do rules sometimes have exceptions?  Yeah.  Sometimes they do.  Sometimes your skanky little sister was allowed to stay out  past curfew while her boyfriend Kurt felt her up in the back of his RX-7 while you were left with the crummy Gilbert Gottfried version of USA Up All Night followed by an hour of squintvision.  That's life.

Anyways, all I'm saying is, it's the fair to middling Kevins of the world that keep life just fine for all of us.  So next time you see a Kevin, why don't you thank him with a medium-grasped handshake and a pat on the back?  He'll probably be pleasantly pleased without being overly excited that you did.