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.
--
So, how was the weekend? Despite the fact that it feels like we're
living in sub-Saharan Africa up here, ours was pleasant enough: a pretty
low-key affair.
The oldest Secret is working us over, trying to convince me and Toney to
allow him to buy something called an airsoft gun. I'm not even 100%
clear on what they are, a BB gun kinda thing that shoots little plastic
dingles? I just don't know.... But I do know that it's literally one
thing after another with him. And the pros and cons of these guns
dominated conversation on Saturday and Sunday, just like similar
"discussions" dominated previous weekends.
Any opinions? I'm a little hesitant to allow our first-born to go all Scarface
on us. I have visions of him leaping from the woods, filthy and
stripped to the waist, barking at the moon and just spraying bullets in
every direction. Am I getting carried away? Again?
-- Toney and I have been talking about digging our bicycles out of the
garage, knocking off the cobwebs, and jumping back in the saddle. A few
years ago I went through a brief jag where I'd ride my bike after work,
and it was a lot of fun, and cathartic as well. I'm not sure why I
stopped, because I have only pleasant memories of the experiment. But
you know how it goes....
We've been casually floating this idea for the past few weeks, and I was
ready to pull the trigger. You know, once the humidity breaks. But over
the weekend Toney received a magazine in the mail, Better Homes Than
You'll Ever Have In Your Entire Fucking Life and Gardens, and
there's an article inside about people returning to bike-riding after
years away from it.
And now the waters have been officially muddied.
Apparently one of those dorky helmets is pretty much required at this
point? Is that true? According to the article it's completely foolhardy
to ride without one, and if you do you'll almost certainly end up like
the Mylar balloon lady, staring at a drop-ceiling for the rest of your
life with your teeth all bucked out. Shit! And they say you'll need
special pants, and all sorts of nonsense.... Hell, I'd look like a
complete fruitstack in all that gear.
Also, the article recommends that you
spend at least $700 on a bike(!). I think mine cost about a hundred
bucks, from Target. So, what does that mean? It won't be able to handle
my heft, and the wheels will go all egg-shaped within half a block,
before the frame snaps in two and I'm impaled on jagged metal?
I'm about ready to just say fuck it.
-- And speaking of novelty pants, I'm sitting here right now in swimming
trunks. All my regular shorts are in the dryer, so I dug these crazy
things out of the drawer. Truthfully they're not too bad, except for the
built-in ball net. I'm not really a fan of the ball net, and am thinking
about cutting it out with a pocket knife. I've got far too much crotch
fabric going on.... And when was the last time I went swimming? I'm
pretty sure Reagan was still president, so it won't be a great loss if I
wreck these bad boys.
-- I seriously considered driving down to Williamsport on Saturday, to
attend this Garfield Convention. I saw a news report about it, and was
dazzled. From what I could tell, it was just wall-to-wall future and
current spinster cat ladies, many sporting pajamas(!?). I wanted to go
there and do one of my Pulitzer-caliber articles, but, unfortunately, I
peaked too early and lost enthusiasm. If only I'd seen the report on
Friday instead of Thursday.... Today you could all be reading about me
getting my ass kicked by an angry mob of Garfield fanatics, and how I
was kicked unconscious by a frenzied gang of forty-five year old virgins
in feet-pajamas. Too bad.
-- On a related note, Brad sent me this pic last night, along with this
description:
Barry Williams, best known for his character of Greg Brady on the TV
series "The Brady Bunch", autographs the stomach of Tiffany
Witt of Norfolk, Neb., following an appearance during the Osmond
Summerfest 2006 town festival in Osmond, Neb., Sunday, June 25, 2006.
"When I take a shower, I'm going to put saran wrap over it so I can
show it to all my friends," Witt reasoned for getting the autograph
on her stomach.
He labeled it Further Evidence, but I'm not so sure. Greg apparently
still has the power to trigger impromptu outbreaks of Farm Girls Gone
Wild! And that's to be admired, I think.
-- I checked my webstats yesterday and saw that somebody in Israel was
reading Buck's latest update. Why do I think that's funny?
-- Last night's episode of Deadwood was, once again, a little
light on the fucks. It started with Trixie just a-stringin' them
together, and I was preparing myself for a bunker buster. But,
unfortunately, it petered out during the second half. A real shame. Here
are the numbers.
-- And finally, the Phil Hendrie Show is no more. I listened as long as
I could on Friday, to the final broadcast, but finally threw in the
towel around midnight. The next morning I played the last hour, and it
was a bit odd. He was doing just a regular show up until the last
few minutes, when highlight clips started playing. That was followed by
a call from Margaret, one of his regular characters, who sang "Come
Sail Away" by Styx. Phil yelled, "Get the hell outta
here!" then it was nothing but static. The end.
Weird. The last program was almost as confusing as the first one I heard.
As it should be? I don't know. But here's how "the greatest show in
the history of radio" ended its sixteen-year run. Net-shittingly
sad.
On a positive note, though, I bought this mouse pad on Saturday -- and
they were all sold out on Sunday. Did I get the last one?! Cool. So, at
least I'll have a little Phil here in the bunker: the mouse pad and
about a million hours (and counting) of mp3s.
Say what you will, but I
am completely feet-pajamas about the Phil Hendrie Show. Funniest motherfucker,
ever. I hope we haven't heard the last of him, I really do.
And that'll do it for today, boys and girls. Thanks for stopping by.
--
So, how was the weekend? Despite the fact that it feels like we're
living in sub-Saharan Africa up here, ours was pleasant enough: a pretty
low-key affair.