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.
--
A few days ago Toney went to Subway (eat fraish!) and picked us
up some comically elongated sandwiches for lunch. I scribbled down what
I wanted on the back of the envelope our electric bill came in, and made
a big to-do about VERY LIGHT mustard. I wrote it in all caps, and
underlined it, because I know how those people operate.
And, of course, when I unwrapped my tube-lunch there was mustard slung
everywhere; it looked like O.J. had caught Nicole chatting with a
condiment. Grrrr....
I tried not to act too irritated, I didn't want Toney to think I was
blaming her. My old boss in Atlanta used to ask me to pick him up
something from Arby's, back in the day, then proceed to bitch, bitch,
bitch about it when I returned. "I don't know what you bought
me," he'd say, "but it certainly wasn't what I ordered."
I always wanted to wait until he had it raised to his mouth, then throw
a haymaker and drive that bitch deep. So, I'm very careful not to act
like him.
But it pisses me off. The term "very light mustard" means
something completely different to me and, apparently, the rest of the
world. I like just a single pencil-thin stripe of the stuff across the
toppings. It's supposed to be a compliment to the sandwich, not the main
ingredient. Ya know? This was a single stripe alright, but it was as
wide as my thumb.
And when I bit into it, there was oozing, substantial oozing. I hate to
be a sandwich crybaby, but that's goddamn disgusting and almost too much
to handle. I smiled though and continued, not wanting to make a scene.
And by the time I was finished I had mustard all over my hands, halfway
up my left forearm, and a little in my eyebrows. It was all I could do
to finish two-thirds of it, the point where it's no longer a
statement. But I finally choked it down. And it smelled like we were
living literally inside a bottle of French's.
All I could taste was mustard, nothing else. Call me a radical, but I
believe a well-prepared sandwich should be a collection of different
tastes and textures all working together to achieve a common goal:
deliciousness. One should not dominate the others, like a fixin' Nazi.
But I'm convinced that America is in love with spreads and dressings,
and that's why I can't get a fair shake at Subway. They're simply giving
the people what they want.
There's a little Italian place near our
house that we frequent, and I always take notice of the way our fellow
diners use salad dressing. And I'm generally disgusted. They
automatically dump the entire contents of the little plastic container
on top of their salad, then pick up a knife and begin scraping
the cup, attempting to get every last drop.
I use about one-third of mine.
Once we were there with Sunshine, and she bitched and complained about
the "tiny amount" of dressing they gave her. (It wasn't served
in a tumbler.) She scraped and scraped, but still wasn't satisfied.
Finally she began snatching up our leftover dressings, and adding them
to the mix. In the end, she had a salad saturated in Italian, Creamy
Garlic, and Thousand Island. I had to avert my eyes.
Just a few days ago we were there and I saw a guy dump his cup, then
twirl the container round and round on the tip of his tongue, like he
was chalking up a goddamn pool cue.
Yeah, it might seem that it's none of my business, but it is. These
people are influencing America's sandwich-makers, and screwing up my
life. They're indirectly responsible for the ooze. Businesses, of
course, want to please their customers. And more often than not, they
know, people view food as little more than a vehicle with which to
transport sauce.
So there you go. Now I guess you're all going to tell me that I'm
the weird one, simply because I don't want to end a meal with tarter
sauce bleeding through the waistband of my underwear? Well, have at it.
-- Here's
even more Monuments to Buck, and this
is Syd Barrett circa 1968 & 2001. I was going to write a little
something about the recently-departed Syd, but there's no time.
I'm outta here, I need to get to work. We're camping this weekend, and
won't be returning until Monday afternoon. So the next update will be
Tuesday.
--
A few days ago Toney went to Subway (eat fraish!) and picked us
up some comically elongated sandwiches for lunch. I scribbled down what
I wanted on the back of the envelope our electric bill came in, and made
a big to-do about VERY LIGHT mustard. I wrote it in all caps, and
underlined it, because I know how those people operate.