Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
I woke up in a foul mood this morning, as if I'd been conceived on the
wrong side of the bed. Which, of course, is a real possibility. I
stopped in the living room to spend a few minutes with the Secrets,
before retiring to my subterranean dungeon of "comedy," and
one of them immediately farted. It sounded like a tire spinning in mud,
and I just stood up and walked out of the room.
I'm sorry, but I hadn't
even managed to take my first sip of coffee yet; under the
circumstances, I saw no humor in the wanton venting of a digestive
tract. What is this, Roseanne?! Now I'm down here listening to
Tom Petty, who is also irritating me, and mumbling to myself. The
chemicals are not my friends today.
-- I lost two pounds last week, by not eating garbage and staying away
from the Mountain Dew machine. Yeah, I know, two pounds doesn't sound
like much, especially considering the fact I've got, like, a fourth
grader to go. But just think about a two-pound can of coffee. That's
been removed from my ass: a can of Folger's. This week I'm introducing
daily exercise into the mix, and hopefully the blubber will start
disappearing a lot faster. I'm completely disgusted with myself -- for
more reasons than usual. I'm tired of being a pile of meat with a snarky
attitude. The thought of drinking a beer even makes me sick right now.
....Will somebody please hold me?
-- Speaking of semi-healthy foods, have you ever put berries on your
cereal? I see that on TV commercials all the time, and on the front of
cereal boxes and everything, but I've never actually seen anyone do it.
In fact, who eats berries at all? I don't eat berries, it never even
crosses my mind. I mean, seriously. Berries?!
-- On Saturday the oldest Secret had a much-anticipated swim meet with
another undefeated team, at an away pool. And it was a long trek from
here. We had to take a highway I didn't even know existed, and drove
forever. I'm not even sure we were still in Pennsylvania, although Toney
assures me we were. The cars in the parking lot seemed to have an even
mix of PA, NY, and NJ license plates. So who the hell knows?
The school was, shall we say, a bit rough around the edges? Apparently
the cost of groundskeeping is simply not covered in the budget. Plus,
there was a lot of your standard Wal-Mart shoppers milling about: women
sporting gargantuan pastel t-shirts with teddy bears on the front and
forearm tattoos, men with mullets and vests, and fat little Campbell's
Soup kids, many with modified mohawks. Oh, it was a heady stew.
But their swim team is tough, and a rival
of ours, so there was electricity in the air. Toney is now involved with
the team in a formal fashion (it's always only a matter of time), and
immediately left me and the youngest Secret to ourselves. We were on our
own in this foreign land, and both sighed loudly and went in search of
the "observation deck."
It was upstairs in a balcony, and already depressingly crowded. We saw
no open seats, and were forced to stand with our backs to the wall. It
was roughly 120 degrees in there, and we were looking at three full
hours of it. Simply excellent.
After the teams finished warming up, a little dumplin' child on the
other team came up into the stands, still dripping water, and asked his
dad for two dollars, so he could buy something at the concession stand.
"What are you doing out there?!" the dad bellowed, "It
looked like you were taking a freaking coffee break every time you got
to the wall! You've got to make those turns quick, quick, quick!!"
The man had a tone of utter disgust in his voice, and I felt sorry for
the kid. All he wanted was some Twizzlers, and got public humiliation
instead.
The Secret was in the third race (which he won, thank you very much),
then he wasn't supposed to compete again until twenty-two. Screw this, I
said, let's go out to the car. My face was shining like James Brown (two
weeks ago) and
I was starting to develop a mild case of claustrophobia, up there in
that packed-out subway car in the sky. So the youngest Secret and I went
outside, listened to an entire Fountains of Wayne CD, ate some SmartFood,
and let the cool breeze perform its magic.
When we returned, a full CD later, they were still only on race
sixteen. But at least there was a place to sit now, way down on the end
of a bench seat. We grabbed it, and I had half a cheek hanging over the
edge. Within minutes phantom ass syndrome kicked in, and the suspended
quarter of my rear end was completely robbed of blood flow. Somebody
could've stabbed me in the ass with a hunting knife, and I wouldn't have
felt it. Oh yeah, it was nothing short of paradise.
Long story a little less long.... Our team won, but it came down to the
final race. It was very exciting, and people were screaming their heads
off. After it was over I heard a few parents raising hell
about something or other, claiming one of our swimmers should be
disqualified. I was afraid things were about to turn ugly (forearm
tattoos, remember), but the complainers weren't getting any traction
with their bitching, so they let it drop.
By the time we got home it was completely dark, and the day was pretty
much shot. The meet had eaten up an entire Saturday, but, in retrospect,
it was time well-spent. Pass the yogurt nodules.
-- Today's question is kinda abstract, but I'll give it a shot anyway.
I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd on Sunday, on our way to Chili's in
Wilkes-Barre (which I'll tell you about tomorrow; Sweet Jesus), and
started thinking.... What would've become of that band, if their plane
hadn't, you know, plunged into a swamp.
And I believe Ronnie Van Zant would've eventually left them, and become
a "serious" songwriter. I think he would've outgrown the
drunken boogie band image, and went off on his own. Of course, when
money was tight, he'd embark on a summer tour with his old friends. But
for the most part, he'd become a Steve Earle type of guy. At least
that's the way I see it.
So my question today.... What do you think would've happened to
musicians and actors who died young, if they'd lived a full life? Tell us about it in the
comments, won't you?
Or, if you prefer, you can just talk about
today's Further Evidence link. Heh.
--
I woke up in a foul mood this morning, as if I'd been conceived on the
wrong side of the bed. Which, of course, is a real possibility. I
stopped in the living room to spend a few minutes with the Secrets,
before retiring to my subterranean dungeon of "comedy," and
one of them immediately farted. It sounded like a tire spinning in mud,
and I just stood up and walked out of the room. 