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.
--
Man, it's hot up here. It's early in the morning as I type this and I'm
sporting a shiny whole-body patina of sweat. And I don't like that.
Monday night I tossed and turned because of the heat, restless and
wallowing around in my own natural juices. So last night, after work,
Toney and I installed the big Soviet humboxes in the bedroom windows, so
we can sleep in comfort at the very least. Those babies ran
wide-open all night long.
I hate this kind of weather. I'd take a snowpack up to the windowsills
in a heartbeat, over this misery. At least with cold you can curl up
beneath the Scrote-watching blanket, and life is good; there's no escape
from the Satan weather.
Before turning in last night I took Andy outside so he could snorkle
around and sling urine and whatnot, and was surprised to find that the
temperature had dropped dramatically. There was a thunderstorm a-brewin'
and it felt pretty good out there. But not inside. Oh no. It was as if
there was some sort of self-sustaining heat core somewhere in the house,
just going to town.
Toney said the clattering and humming of the air conditioner irritated
her, and she didn't sleep very well. Me? I was like JFK in Dallas.
-- Last night I turned over to the Weather Channel to see if there's any
relief in sight (supposedly there is), and noticed that they have a
second-by-second countdown to the beginning of hurricane season, down in
the corner of the screen. It starts tonight, you know. At 11 PM you're
completely safe, but at midnight you'd better start watching your ass,
mister.
Is that not hilarious? Don't you just love the hype? And people like
Sunshine will lap it all up, believing that setting foot in Florida in
June or July is as risky as anything the Apollo astronauts ever faced.
It's almost as classic as people who say," Oh, I'd never
have the nerve to visit California, they have all those earthquakes out
there." Or the ones who believe that the internet is nothing but
one big baby-rapist social club. You know, like Sunshine. ....And some
other people.
-- On Sunday we worked in the yard like
the guys on Cool Hand Luke. A few times I was forced to take an
emergency break, because it felt like I was on the verge of upchucking
into the rhododendrons. But we got everything done, and it looks great.
I'm not one to pat myself on the back, as you may know, but I believe
the shit is nothing short of stellar. There are other yards in the
neighborhood that are as nice as ours right now, but not many that are nicer.
And that's the troof.
When I left for work yesterday I drove real slow,
so I could take it all in from the street. And I think I experienced
something that I'd always believed was a myth: the satisfaction of a job
well done. Who knew that it was for real??
-- After our day of toil, I took an ice-cold shower and hobbled out to
the deck, adult beverage in-hand. Toney joined me, and we both moaned
about our aches and pains for a while. At least until the Rolling Rocks
kicked in....
The Secrets wanted out of the sun, and were inside playing a new-to-them
PS2 game called The Simpsons: Hit & Run. But Andy joined us on
the deck and immediately began trying to catch bees again. For some
reason the hound is obsessed with bees; he leaps and barks and tries to
hypnotize them with his stare. He completely ignores other flying
insects, like flies and gnats, but bees cause him to lose his shit. I
warned him (once again) that if he ever manages to catch one, he'll wish
that he hadn't. The dumbass will end up looking like a border collie
with a full-on set of Sandra Bernhard lips.... But he pays me no mind.
It's as if he can't understand a word I'm saying.
The Half-Shirts next door were having a big holiday blow-out, as we
nursed ourselves back to health. As best as
we could tell, they had a bunch of extended family over there, and were
kicking up one hell of a racket. They were knocking back the booze, of course, and it
sounded like the whole gang was talking at once -- and it was a heady brew
of New Jersey, Philadelphia, and Scranton accents.
One woman had a voice
that cut straight through everything like a knife. Every time she opened
her mouth it felt like knitting needled were being plunged into my
temples. I told Toney that I couldn't live with such a person. I don't
care if she was the sweetest person in the world, and the love of my
life. I'd have to settle for second-best.
There were several teenagers down there, and their parents were letting
them drink beer. I heard one person holler (there was no speaking, only
hollering), "You're allowed twelve sips, because you're twelve
years old." Maybe it's because I was raised in Baptist-saturated
West Virginia, but that was almost shocking to me. What do you think
about that?
When I went to bed that night the Half-Shirt Jamboree was still in full
swing. I was reading my (kick-ass) Lincoln book in bed, and could barely
concentrate because of all the noise. The last thing I remember hearing,
before drifting off to sleep, was somebody screaming, "Bullshit!
Just
utter undiluted bullshit!!" Sweet dreams.
-- And that's all I have time for today, kiddies.
Before handing over the reins to Buck, please allow me to alert you to
this extra-cool, and slightly art house, Smoking Fish sighting. Thanks
for going above and beyond, Todd! You guys keep 'em coming, OK? Our logo
is always out and about.
And Will, the Keeper of the Blanket, has made a few additions to his
list here. The fresh quotes, as always, are at the bottom.
-- Finally, here's our good friend Buck to close out the category.
--
Man, it's hot up here. It's early in the morning as I type this and I'm
sporting a shiny whole-body patina of sweat. And I don't like that.
Monday night I tossed and turned because of the heat, restless and
wallowing around in my own natural juices. So last night, after work,
Toney and I installed the big Soviet humboxes in the bedroom windows, so
we can sleep in comfort at the very least. Those babies ran
wide-open all night long.
. But Andy joined us on
the deck and immediately began trying to catch bees again. For some
reason the hound is obsessed with bees; he leaps and barks and tries to
hypnotize them with his stare. He completely ignores other flying
insects, like flies and gnats, but bees cause him to lose his shit. I
warned him (once again) that if he ever manages to catch one, he'll wish
that he hadn't. The dumbass will end up looking like a border collie
with a full-on set of Sandra Bernhard lips.... But he pays me no mind.
It's as if he can't understand a word I'm saying.