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.
--
The rest of our big weekend camping trip was dominated by heat:
brain-melting temperatures, and maxed-out humidity. It was
all-encompassing, and almost inescapable. Here's how it played out:
Saturday We woke up to the sound of rain pounding the top of the
camper, and the canvas above our heads. "Oh shit!" Toney
hollered, sprang from the bed and ripped out the door. The shit?? I
haven't moved that fast since Reagan was in office. Turns out she didn't
want the folding chairs to get wet, since it takes them roughly a week
to dry. Good thinking, pass the beer nuts.
Eventually I started to move around, and could tell that my back ache
had returned. Oh great. Was I now going to spend the rest of the weekend
all gnarled-up and grimacing, with my hands drawn up to my chest like a
T. Rex? I'm just one portable party atmosphere, I told myself, fun for
all.
Luckily enough, it went away shortly after I hoisted my ass upright. And
Toney and I began our morning ritual of drinking coffee and plotting the
day. But we had to do it inside this time, because of the rain. The
Secrets had already turned on Nickelodeon, and Timmy Turner's voice was
boring a hole straight through my brain stem.
This is when we had our first (of several) soul-searching conversations
about whether or not "camping is for us." It was already
grotesquely hot outside, I needed to pee like Man O' War but didn't
cherish the thought of trudging through the rain to the bath house, and
we both felt like we'd been dipped in chicken grease then smoked in a
smoke shack.
Visions of Double Tree Inns danced in our heads.
As we waited on the rain to stop I signed up for 48 hours worth of
wireless internet, for eleven bucks. A little steep, I thought, but who
gives a hot-buttered damn? I was developing a slow-burn bad attitude,
and I'm pretty sure Toney was right there with me.
The weather sites we visited said the rain would end around noon, and
they were right. It stopped right on time, and was replaced by the bad
crazy sun. I'm not kidding, it was like a blast furnace outside. Like
sub-Saharan Africa or some deal.
I dragged my wilting ass to the bath house
to take a shower, and enjoyed the air conditioning inside. It didn't
smell too good (there was tag-team crapping going on, along with much
uneasy shit-chat), but it was cold in there. And cold is good.
I didn't like the looks of the shower nozzle, and my fears were
confirmed when I turned on the water. The thing was nothing but a
misting device, the kind they have at outdoor cafes in hellish cities
like Dallas. It took forever to get the job done, because I was standing
inside a lukewarm cloud. Grrr.... Stupid water-saving bean-counting
basta'ds.
The Secrets played with other kids at the campground, wide-open and for
hours on end. I don't know how they did it, but they did. It looked like
they were having a great time, and Toney and I reminded each other that
it was the reason we endured this type of thing. And as we said those
words another marble-sized bead of sweat worked its way down the full
length of my butt-crack.
In the late afternoon we took the kids to the pool. There were four
tables there with shade umbrellas, three of which were occupied. At the
fourth people had draped towels over the bench seats to "save"
them. I shoved the towels to one end, and sat down. Toney said,
"Um, I think somebody else is sitting here." I didn't even
answer.
She dragged a chair over beside me, not wanting to involve herself in
the coming confrontation, and we watched the Secrets rough-house and do
stuff that's not really advised. There were lots of fat people in
attendance, including a woman who looked like Ginny Sack. Her gargantuan
thighs appeared to be constructed of still-wet cement. And lots of it.
As she waddled past I said, in my most thenthitive and understanding
Oprah voice, "Well good for her!"
And that's what I did the rest of the time we were at the pool; whenever
another swaddler shuffled by, I said, "Well, good for her!" I
tried to do it with the men too, but it didn't feel quite right. I've
never heard anyone say that for a 500 lb. man, so I confined it to the
women for authenticity's sake.
I was now getting on Toney's nerves.
After swimming (where the towel people never returned to the scene of
their crime) we went back to the camper, and got ready to cook dinner.
Which, of course, is code-speak for "opened the goddamn bar."
Toney brought along twelve Cokes in the old-fashioned glass bottles, as
a treat for the Secrets, and she handed them each one. Immediately they
started chugging them down, like they were in a race of some sort. I'd
noticed them doing this earlier, and asked what was going on. They
looked at me like they didn't know what I was talking about. Do they
have a summer soda-drinking camp somewhere? I think our kids could
benefit from such a thing. Perhaps we've sheltered them a bit too much?
As we enjoyed our three or four before-dinner Pottsville beverages, we
heard someone hollering over in the commons area near the playground. It
sounded like an adult, not a kid, and he was yelling, "Trow it!
Trow the ball!!" Occasionally he'd crank off a theatrical,
exaggerated laugh, like an actor in a silent movie. Or, you know, some
doucheketeer like Nostrils. He was the loudest person in the place, and
every head was turning in his direction.
Yes, that's correct, it was Mr. Highly Involved Dad, putting on his
evening performance. God, how I wanted to hurt him. I sat there
grumbling and spinning great fantasies that featured the trowing
of hot oil, as well as a little spear-chucking. I looked around at
neighboring sites, and saw other people shaking their heads as well. I
thought I could probably take advantage of some good old-fashioned mob
mentality, but it was far too hot for such a project. Screw it.
Around the time we returned from the pool, a country band began setting
up in the pavilion across the street. It was comprised of three or four
very old men, and one very old woman. By the time we placed our burgers
on the grill, they were well into their third or fourth Hank Williams
song. And they played until ten o'clock. Their voices were pretty good,
and the harmonies were top-notch, but they desperately needed to up the
beats-per-minute; plodding is a good word to describe their performance.
I kept waiting for them to cut loose like Jason and the Scorchers, but
it never happened. Around hour two, or so, all the songs started sounding
exactly alike.
After dinner we all walked down to the camp store, and had Choco-Tacos
for desert. Yum. We bought a bundle of over-priced firewood and a couple
sacks of over-priced ice, and trudged back to our sweat-soaked Coleman
chairs. I built a fire for the Secrets to prod (before they crashed like
a ton of lead around nine o'clock), and grabbed me and Toney another
beer each. And that was that. We barely moved until bedtime, except, of
course, for the wild slapping of mosquitoes off our thighs, necks, and
forearms.
It was a miserable day, and the next would be even worse.
And I apologize for dragging this thing out, but I'll have to finish up
tomorrow. Stay tuned for a surprise ending....
--
The rest of our big weekend camping trip was dominated by heat:
brain-melting temperatures, and maxed-out humidity. It was
all-encompassing, and almost inescapable. Here's how it played out: