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.
--
For the past couple of months I've been seeing a KFC commercial (that's
Kentucky Fried Chicken for those of you who aren't hip to the cool new
street lingo, and for you folks in West Virginia, it's The Colonel),
that gets on my last nerve. It shows a woman walk proudly into a room,
place a bucket of chicken in the middle of a table, then proceed to act
as if she's the reincarnation of June Cleaver herself.
The kids and the Dad (semi-retarded, of course) come running, and
commence to ripping and tearing poultry meat off the bone, like a pack
of wild mountain dogs, and the mother says, with a loving glint in her
eye, "That's music to my ears."
Yeah, great accomplishment, sister. You went through a drive-through.
That action certainly earns you the right to pat yourself on the back,
and toot your own horn. Where's the freaking trophy? Why you're the
mother of the year!
But you know what would've been even sweeter? If you'd sprung for a few
lousy sides. Like maybe a tub of those smashed taters with the salt
gravy? Or a little corn, at least. A greasy bucket of meat, bones, and
ligaments is great. But can't you help a brother out with some side
items? Goddamn.
Whatever. I hate it. The expression of pride on the woman's face makes
me say things that the Secrets probably shouldn't hear.
-- And speaking of The Colonel, have you seen their latest menu item?
It's a plastic bowl filled with mashed potatoes, corn, chicken nuggets,
salt gravy, and cheese -- all mixed together in some sort of
questionable bitches brew. I ain't shittin' ya; it's real. It reminds me
of the stuff I used to eat during my poor-ass Greensboro years, like a
plate of spaghetti with Campbell's Bean With Bacon soup as the
"sauce."
Have any of you tried this KFC bastardization bowl yet? If so, we need a
review. And if not, I'll get one this weekend, and do it myself. And
while I'm at it, I might swing by Taco Bell and pick up one of their new
berets of beef, or whatever they call them.
Is it just me, or is fast food starting to get a bit bizarre?
-- And since we're talking about
commercials.... How do you think I could go about securing a part in an
infomercial? I'm especially interested in the black & white segments
that illustrate "the old way" of doing something -- before
this wonderful new invention came on the market.
Know what I mean? It's the part where a person is shown cutting a tomato
with a painful grimace on their face, then suddenly lunge their arm
forward and the blade tumbles out of their hand and falls to the floor.
Or there will be a guy raking leaves, again sporting a Gary Shandling
grimace, just shredding the living crap out of a trash bag. Sometimes
he'll also be shown with two or three massive sacks on his back, wiping
away the sweat, then falling on his ass in the yard.
And that's what I want to specialize in: the black & white "old
way" sections of infomercials. Any suggestions or tips? I'd like to
get the ball rolling on this.
-- This probably won't mean much to those of you who didn't grow up near
Charleston, WV, but check out the
cool baseball my friend Steve sent me. The Charleston Charlies, baby!
It's hillbilly nostalgia at its finest.
-- Here are a couple of cool new
Smoking Fish sightings, sent in my Surf Reporter Jim. And by the way, he
also wrote the Wikipedia article that's linked below the first pic.
Awesome. Thanks Jim, I appreciate the effort. You guys keep 'em coming,
OK?
-- And finally, a Stealing Clive Bull's Topics topic.... What's it gonna
be for you, burial or cremation?
I'm going to go the burn 'em up route, because there's nothing
creepier than a funeral. I don't want a casket, open or otherwise, and
don't need people standing around in ill-fitting suits, or any of that
horribleness. Why would I want to put my family or friends through such
an ordeal? No, just load me into the oven like a big-a pizza pie, and
hit a happy hour somewhere. I insist.
Also, if you have any funny cremation stories to tell, I'd like to hear
those, too. Toney once helped a friend move, and one of the boxes she
picked up was marked KITCHEN STUFF, TELEPHONE, DAD. Her father's urn was
inside, packed away like any other household item. Heh.
And that'll do it for today, boys and girls. More of this crapola
tomorrow.
--
For the past couple of months I've been seeing a KFC commercial (that's
Kentucky Fried Chicken for those of you who aren't hip to the cool new
street lingo, and for you folks in West Virginia, it's The Colonel),
that gets on my last nerve. It shows a woman walk proudly into a room,
place a bucket of chicken in the middle of a table, then proceed to act
as if she's the reincarnation of June Cleaver herself.