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 took the youngest Secret to school this morning it felt like
baseball season outside. I didn't even wear a jacket, and can't remember
the last time I left the house without first encasing myself in some
sort of commercially-produced quilt sewn roughly into the shape of a
man.
The thick granite-hard snowpack that's been on the ground for the past
month is melting away, from the bottom up it seems, and it feels like
the whole world is getting a much-needed bath. Birds have been chirping,
caribou wandering around....
Man, you'd have to be one hard, hard sumbitch not to love the changes of
season.
-- I went to Subway yesterday for lunch, and they now offer apples as a
sandwich topping. Apples! They sure are attached to the novelty fixin's at that
place, aren't they?
Perhaps I'm out of the loop (anything's possible), but I have a hard
time with a lot of that stuff. Even back in the old days, before things
went completely crazy, they would ask if I wanted black olives on
my seven dollar lettuce sandwich. Do I look insane? Am I wearing a
sombrero of turds here? Is my wiener out? Olives? On a sandwich?? Blecch.
Those things taste like a mouthful of buffalo nickels.
Hell, they're not even shaped right. You can't have a sandwich
topping that rolls. Am I wrong about that? It seems to me society
decided the sandwich rules a long time ago, and Subway is in repeated
violation. You're supposed to stack it up with stuff that's generally
flat. You make layers between two slices of bread, or inside a bun of
some sort;
it's not a difficult concept. Keeping the sandwich level should NOT be a
concern.
And don't even get me started on fruit. That's just showboating, plain
and simple, and not worthy of a reaction.
-- I finally received my Shoes
CD a few days ago, and it was indeed a CDR. A bit of a pisser, but
not completely.... Sure, I would've preferred an actual, collectible,
commercially- produced compact disc. But, I didn't buy the thing as an
investment, I bought it to hear all the great songs again. So mission
accomplished on that front; the thing sounds great, all the music is
there, blah blah blah. I'll just try to ignore the little "Is it
live or is it Memorex?" printed around the middle of the disc. Try,
I said.
On a similar subject.... I received a note
from eBay yesterday informing me that the person from whom I bought a
four-year subscription to Blender magazine is, apparently, a
complete fraud. They'd shut down his operation, etc., and are urging me
to "take all possible steps to receive reimbursement." Bastard
took off with my $1.99!
-- I saw this today in an article about the death of Boston lead singer
Brad Delp:
Toxicology tests by the state medical examiner's office showed that
Delp committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning, said Lt. William
Baldwin. Police said Delp had sealed himself inside a bathroom with two
charcoal grills sometime between 11:30 p.m. Thursday and Friday
afternoon, when he was found by fiancee Pamela Sullivan.
Locked himself in a bathroom with a bunch of grills going?! Have you
ever come across that one before? Yeah, me either. That's the weirdest
suicide method I've heard about since a guy in my hometown strapped an
entire weightlifting set, bars and all, to his body, and casually walked
into the Kanawha River.
What are some of the other strange ways people have hastened their
departure from this world? Do you have any local stories to share?
Please tell us about 'em, won't you?
-- I don't know why, but I struggled with this update like a man atop a
toilet at a cheese festival. Every word was earned, believe me. I
apologize for its brevity, but I'll leave you today with something I
know you'll enjoy.
This, my friends, is Brenda
Love's vision of Nancy & Nostrils and
their brood of l'il translucents. And I'm telling you.... she's pretty
freakin' accurate. Don't miss this one, folks! And thanks Brenda, for
salvaging my Thursday update.
--
When I took the youngest Secret to school this morning it felt like
baseball season outside. I didn't even wear a jacket, and can't remember
the last time I left the house without first encasing myself in some
sort of commercially-produced quilt sewn roughly into the shape of a
man.