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, the funeral was only a few hours away, and I had no pants. I'd tried
Wal-Mart, in a fit of desperation, but all of their "dress
clothes" looked like something a door-to-door Bible salesman might
wear. So what was I to do? I was supposed to be a pall bearer, and
needed to be at the church at 10:45 in the morning. All the stores were
closed and the clock was ticking.
I called Toney, and once she stopped laughing she told me she thought
she saw a JCPenney ad that said their Scranton store opened on Saturday
at 8 am. They were having some sort of sale, and it would probably be
the same for the WV stores. I checked the newspaper at my parent's
house, and it was true! A doorbuster sale, with extra savings between
eight and ten in the morning. Damn straight.
My Mom and I were there when they opened the store, and there wasn't
exactly an unruly crowd waiting outside to "bust" through the
doors like their ad had wished for. It was just the two of us, a man who
was practicing his golf swings with a phantom club in the parking lot,
and a woman who may or may not be afflicted with dwarfism.
I think my mother and I were arguing before we even made it to the men's
department.
Of the clothes I'd brought, she only approved of the tie and shoes. Oh,
and I think the belt was OK too. She said everything else was for
winter, and I was getting paranoid about it. I couldn't shell out a
bunch of money for an hour's worth of funeraling, but she clearly
thought I needed a complete overhaul. I certainly didn't want to look
ridiculous and inappropriate, but what am I, Ted Turner here? Shit.
Plus, she accused me of being difficult and picky. There was lots of
"how about this jacket?" to which I'd usually answer,
"No, I'd look like I work at H&R Block," or something
along those lines. Through gritted teeth she finally said, "I don't
know where you're getting all these cute little phrases, but they need
to stop." It was like I was fourteen again.
I ended up buying a pair of pants, a shirt, and a jacket. They rang up
for more than three hundred bucks(!), but after the cashier finished
whacking away with the discounts and coupons, I owed them $126. My
receipt said I'd saved $196, but I wasn't focusing on that number. I was
thinking about the $126. Sweet Maria, I'd gone there for pants. Toney
would surely kill me.
But I'd have to burn that bridge when I
got to it. We were playing beat the clock now, and I tore ass back to my
parent's house. There would be barely enough time to iron my new
purchases, get dressed, and drive to Dunbar before the service began.
Too crazy.
I made it, with only minutes to spare. I flopped down in the very last
row of pews, beside my friend Tim, and was sweating like a market hog. I
looked around and just knew that everybody else had simply gone
to their closets that morning, and casually chosen their clothes. I was
the only doucheketeer that had been racing up and down the interstate,
frantic and near tears.
Someday I'd like to know what it feels like to be an adult, just
so I can have the experience.
I performed my pall bearer duties without getting wedged beneath the
casket. And when we got to the cemetery I noticed that one of the
funeral home guys had apparently eaten a glazed donut along the way, and
a little of it was still stuck to the corner of his mouth. I didn't
laugh, but it took considerable effort. I spent some time with Steve,
and talked to his mother and sisters. It was sad and emotional, like
most funerals are, and by one o'clock it was all over.
Whew! I pointed my car back in the direction of my parent's house, where
some big ol' t-shirts and shorts were calling my name. I couldn't wait
to get out of that horrible love handle-strangling gear; I felt like I
was bound, head to toe, in plastic wrap. A few times I had to will away
an actual panic attack.
Once I was back in the standard Jeff Kay uniform, I ate some lunch and
went back to Dunbar. I stopped at Tim's house to drop off a loaner copy
of the first season of the British version of The Office on DVD,
something I'm certain is right up his alley. Then I went to Bill's
place, and had a few beers in his basement "saloon," while
watching Slingblade on one of his many televisions. I was back in
the real world.
Before returning to my parent's house I drove around the old hometown,
just to check things out. Apparently, somewhere along the line, about
75% of the homeowners there decided to just say fuck it, and stopped
maintaining their residences. It feels like everything is exactly the
way it was when I left almost twenty years ago, just sitting there and
slowly crumbling into the Earth.
There are plenty of exceptions, of
course, but that's the general feeling I got, and it made me sad. Dunbar
was a great place to grow up, our own personal Mayberry, and I hate
seeing it in its current state. But, of course, as I'm reminded quite
regularly, I'm part of the problem, for moving away; I've got blood on
my hands.
The next morning I got up early, jumped into my parent's nerve-wracking
shower, determined to be back home at a decent hour. The shower? Oh,
they have one of those contraptions in there that supposedly cleans
everything automatically. It hangs off the shower nozzle, and has a big
reservoir on top that contains God-knows-what. I was afraid it was set
on a timer and might kick-on while I was in there, and douse my junk
with some sort of flesh-eating chemical. But I made it home with
everything still intact.
The drive back was a pain in the balls. I sat in traffic for at least
forty-five minutes on 81, because a big moving van had crashed and some
poor bastard's belongings were strewn all over creation. They literally
had a bulldozer out there scooping up wet and muddy clothing and crap,
and dropping it into the back of a dump truck. I saw a pair of white
Fruit of the Looms hanging off the teeth of that dozer at one point, and
I felt sorry for the people who undoubtedly had no idea what was going
on with their stuff. Here's
a pic I snapped with my terrible cell phone camera, just to give you an
idea.
I also stopped at a Wendy's in Maryland where I was apparently the only
white person within twenty miles. I also got the feeling that I was
about twice as old as everyone else, and was experiencing a phenomenon
known as cultural discomfort. Then I hit about thirty miles of
fog, and the whole thing just sucked....
But now you're up to date on the whole affair. And I'll leave you today
with a
video that confirms many of the things I've long suspected. I
have nothing to do with any of it, and it still pisses me off. Grrrr... Be
sure to check it out.
--
So, the funeral was only a few hours away, and I had no pants. I'd tried
Wal-Mart, in a fit of desperation, but all of their "dress
clothes" looked like something a door-to-door Bible salesman might
wear. So what was I to do? I was supposed to be a pall bearer, and
needed to be at the church at 10:45 in the morning. All the stores were
closed and the clock was ticking.