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.
--
When I was a kid, in the early 1970s, a "bug truck" would
drive up and down the alleys of our town in the summertime, spraying
great clouds of yellowish insecticide all over, as one of my aunts would
call it, carnation. It smelled pretty horrible, and was
doubtlessly toxic. But my friends and I would ride behind the truck on
our bikes, turning it into an adventure. We couldn't see a thing inside
the chemical fog, and believed it to be the absolute height of good
times. Just thought you'd want to know.
-- Last weekend I went to Borders to buy a calendar for my office at
work. I figured I'd waited long enough for them to be marked down to a
dollar. But I was wrong, they were three dollars. Still, the selection
was mighty picked-over.
I chose one that features vintage advertisements for Spam "luncheon
meat," and consider it a real score. Even though we were more of a Treet
family while I was growing up....
The rest were either ripped and/or apparently danced upon, or consisted
of various photographs of the skyline of Butte, Montana, or something
equally bizarre. There was also a lot of male beefcake still on the
shelves. One included a so-called fireman on the front, shirtless and
looking suggestively into the camera while grasping a rigid hose with
both hands. I decided against it.
A couple of selections surprised me. There were big stacks remaining of
two specific titles, as if not a single calendar had been sold.
One was the Philadelphia Phillies, which used to be the
"hometown" team around these parts. Everybody followed them,
and talked about how bad they suck, etc. But now that their farm team
has relocated, it looks like they're yesterday's news. There was a big
honkin' pile of their official team calendars weighing down one end of
the rack, threatening to turn the shit over. And I noticed the Yankees
were nowhere to be found.
Another was something called African American Celebration. On the cover was a
black family wearing sweaters and smiling warmly. Somebody in the
Borders buying department must've been operating under the assumption
there are black folks in Scranton. Is that not hilarious? Maybe next
year they could bring in a line of vegetarian calendars as well, or
perhaps a few Cheerful Customer Service titles? How about a desk
organizer called Expert Interstate Merging? Heh.
Yes, I was lucky to get my hands on a
three dollar Spam calendar, and it's now displayed prominently in my
office. And today (or tomorrow) I'll get to flip the page over, and see
what terrifying casserole I'll be staring at until March. Pretty
awesome, huh?
-- Surf Reporter Brian sent me this
distressing news yesterday. Apparently the Beautiful South has broken up
after nineteen years, because of "musical similarities." And
boy am I glad we didn't wimp out on going to their show in November. As
best as I can tell, they only played ten more concerts after we saw them
in Philadelphia. I'd almost certainly be slugging myself full in the
genitalia today if we'd stayed home, which is something that almost
happened. <sigh> ....Is it too early for a reunion tour?
-- Yesterday we received a Consumer Reports in the mail, their
annual Big Ass Television issue. And guess what? Our JVC model is ranked
at number five on a list of twenty-two rear projection sets. The entire
top four is Toshiba.... who knew?
It makes me feel like we might've actually made a good choice for once.
I was certain I'd flip open the magazine and our TV would be on the
Models To Avoid Like A Homeless Man With A Turd Behind His Ear As If It
Were A Pencil list. I just knew it.
I'm not accustomed to being pleasantly surprised....
-- My brother found this at a
newspaper archives site. I have absolutely no recollection of it, and
cannot provide additional information. All I know is, they apparently
photographed me moments after returning from a bug truck run. Sweet
sainted mother of Shirley Booth.
-- Here's
some stuff on rock 'n' roll plane crashes, and I'm going to call it a
day. Screw it. I'm not feeling so hot this morning. We went to Don
Pablo's for dinner last night, and something has rendered my lower
intestines unpredictable.
In fact, I think I'm going to use a sick day, out of fear of my nearly
thirty year-long streak coming to an explosive and shotgun patterned end. I
usually don't shy away from "playing hurt," but there's a
limit to everything.
--
When I was a kid, in the early 1970s, a "bug truck" would
drive up and down the alleys of our town in the summertime, spraying
great clouds of yellowish insecticide all over, as one of my aunts would
call it, carnation. It smelled pretty horrible, and was
doubtlessly toxic. But my friends and I would ride behind the truck on
our bikes, turning it into an adventure. We couldn't see a thing inside
the chemical fog, and believed it to be the absolute height of good
times. Just thought you'd want to know.