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.
--
Last week it was soul-crushingly hot up here, and now it's turned almost
nipply. In fact, I broke out the Scrote-watching blanket on Sunday (The
Sopranos) and Saturday (Jaws), and it was all good. I don't
know how the temperatures can plunge thirty or so degrees in a single
day, but I'll take it. Pass the beer nuts.
-- On Friday it was still a little too hot for the Scroter, but I
watched Scream that night, off the DVR. Lotsa fun, especially the
girl in the garage door...
I also enjoyed checking out all the cutting-edge technology in that
flick. It was made in 1996, which seems like only yesterday to an old
burn-out such as myself. But they were still using computers with black
screens and green letters. And people were running around hollering,
"Do any of you have a cellular telephone?! Please, we really need a
cellular telephone!!"
Hilarious. It sounds as dated as my old boss in Atlanta, who insisted on
calling his home stereo a "hi-fi set."
Monica from Friends said she had one of these amazing newfangled
gadgets inside her van, and proceeded to hoist a massive carton of
cigarettes-sized hunk of electronics off the console, complete with
Darth Vader light saber antenna. It looked like it took all her strength
to punch in the numbers, and if the call had lasted for more than thirty
seconds, some sort of leather head harness would've surely been required
to keep the cellular telephone up to her ear. The shit was like a
Vietnam War field radio.
Yeah, it was good fun, for several reasons. I'd seen it before, of
course, but one of the benefits of mild brain damage is that you can
watch the same things over and over again, and it's new every time. I
had no idea who the killer was (I ain't shittin' ya), and enjoyed the
ride.
I don't know why, but I'm in the mood for goofy summer blockbuster fun.
I watched Jaws on Saturday, for the fourth or fifth time, and it
never gets old. "We're going to need a bigger boat." I love
that...
Any suggestions for next weekend? I'm especially interested in anything
from the comically-oversized electronics genre. Thanks in advance for
your feedback.
-- Check
it out, the latest addition to the Bunker Collection. Patience
pays off, once again.
-- One day last week the oldest Secret
came home from school all jacked-up about smoke bombs. I kinda wish he'd
come home jacked-up about literature or science or something, but who am
I fooling? I remember being in elementary school, and looking longingly at
the displays of half-assed Grade C "fireworks" they always
sold at hip cutting-edge stores around town, such as Revco and Rite-Aid,
during the run-up to July 4 every year. And I wasn't exactly daydreaming
about Herman Melville either.
There's always sparklers, of course, and snap 'n' pops, and the
lame-as-hell miniature champagne bottles with a tampon string that you
yank, causing the bottom to pop open and a clump of confetti to roll out. Those are
the mainstays, along with the big cones that emit a "shower of
sparks."
But the best of all Grade C fireworks is also the rarest: the smoke
bomb.
We had a lot of fun with those things back in the day. I remember Rocky
lighting one on the windowsill outside of Steve's bedroom, in front of a
whirling box fan, and sending an ample load of egg fart smoke straight
into the house. Good times.
But just as it was in the old days, they're hard to find. One of the
Secret's friends had obviously tracked some down, and had been spinning
intoxicating tales about them at school. So I was required, by Dad Law,
to find some as well. It took me roughly an hour.
On Saturday afternoon we went to the backyard, and set off eighteen of
those babies. At first we were doing them one at a time, but quickly
graduated to three or four together. The Secrets wanted to set an entire
box on fire, and crazy shit like that, but I wouldn't allow it. And when
they were all gone, they started begging me to buy more. I just shuffled
back
into the house, opened a Rolling Rock, and farted to the East. That was
my answer to their request.
Yesterday, Sunday, one of their friends was hanging around,
and they started working on me again about the smoke bombs. I was in a
good mood, so I took
them over to the store, gave them a five dollar bill, and told 'em to
knock themselves out.
When we got home I warned them that they'd better
use them "the correct way," or I'd confiscate 'em. (I sounded
shockingly like my own Dad.) They
promised they would, and the three of them went to the back yard.
And to their credit, they didn't try any craziness. They just laid them
on a tree stump, and lit them.
But there was a breeze, and the smoke
went straight up, took a radical turn to the right, then went directly
into Half-Shirt's upstairs bedroom windows! Oh shit. I considered
telling them to quit, but decided against it. That dude hadn't earned such
considerations.
So the boys just kept lighting off the bombs, one after the other, and
eventually I heard Halfy's wife start screeching, "What's on
fire?!"
It was like something off cartoons: the smoke seemed to
almost seek their open upstairs windows. I was laughing my ass
off, inside the house. After a while I heard Half-Shirt holler, "Goddammit,
just close the windows! The whole house smells like freakin' eggs!!"
I laughed so hard I literally got light-headed; I kinda wish Rocky could've been
there to witness the whole thing.
And that'll do it for today, my friends. More of this ridiculousness
tomorrow. See ya then.
--
Last week it was soul-crushingly hot up here, and now it's turned almost
nipply. In fact, I broke out the Scrote-watching blanket on Sunday (The
Sopranos) and Saturday (Jaws), and it was all good. I don't
know how the temperatures can plunge thirty or so degrees in a single
day, but I'll take it. Pass the beer nuts.