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.
--
August is almost over (somehow), and there's already a hint of fall in
the air up here. I love it. As I drove back from West Virginia on Sunday
it just kept getting cooler and cooler the farther north I traveled --
the temperature gauge on the dash went down down down, as I drove up up
up. I started out in ice water country (still hotter than the piss of an
owl down there), and by the time I reached our driveway I was sensing
the unmistakable pull of bourbon season.
It's a bizarre feeling to drive from one season to another, it
really is.
And the great thing? Except for the horror movie of a camping trip we
took in July, summer didn't have its way with us like it normally does.
That big honkin' Soviet humbox that we bought from Sam's, and installed
in one of the living room windows, has changed everything. I now laugh
in the face of summer: Ha Ha Ha! We have defeated you with our
superior technology! So move along, little bitch.
-- I've been neglecting my Netflix queue. It feels like my life has been
chaos recently, and I don't have the energy to try to remember why. But
I've been letting the chips fall where they may with Netflix, as a
result of the craziness, and weeds are starting to pop up through the
cracks, and shit is getting shaggy.
A few days ago I received a one-hour documentary about Stuart
Sutcliffe in the mail from them, and that simply wouldn't have
happened if I'd been on top of my game. I mean, seriously. That's one of
those things that you might want to watch someday, way off in an
abstract future. But actually getting it? It's nuts.
I really need to dedicate some time to it and restore order in the
queue, but I currently lack the enthusiasm for such a thing. I feel like
there's an old washing machine in the front yard of my Netflix house,
and a Camaro with a coat hanger antennae and one green door, but I'm
paralyzed by lack of interest and half-assery against doing anything
about it.
I have become a full-blown Flixbilly.
-- This is
the contraption my parents have hanging in one of their showers.
Apparently my mother received a $5-off coupon in the mail for it, and
decided to try it out. I don't know anything about the ridiculous
device, and thought it might be controlled by a timer. I was terrified
that it would suddenly kick-on while I was in there, and spray me full
in the crotch with a jet of harsh chemicals.
But my Dad told me you have to push the
button, it gives you ten seconds to get out of the way, then it goes to
town. That made me feel a little better, until I accidentally bumped it
while rinsing shampoo from my hair. I was convinced that I'd started the
countdown, and almost ripped the shower door off its hinges trying to
get away from it.
That thing needs to go straight to the garbage can.
-- This is a little hard to believe, I know, but it's true: I was carded
last night while buying beer. I stopped on my way home from work for a
case of the golden
elixir, and the guy wanted to see my ID. I said, "You've GOTTA
be shitting me?" while handing him my driver's license. He told me
that college is back in session, and they need to be extra-careful. Wow.
Talk about Old School! Man, I'd still be legal if I'd been born
on the day I became legal. Or whatever. Hello?
-- When I was driving back on Sunday I stopped at a convenience store
somewhere on I-79, way out where your cell phone says NO SERVICE, for a
coffee refill on my Krispy Kreme travel mug. After I stirred in the Half
& Half, and was making my way to the cash register, I noticed a
display of Hostess products out of the corner of my eye. Yum. I picked
up a package of chocolate cupcakes, paid the It's Pat cashier for
my purchases, and headed out the door.
But wait! What about the car? There was no way I was going to attempt to
eat those cakes in my pristine new vehicle, no chance in hell. So I
stood on the sidewalk and had them, a safe distance from the upholstery.
Damn good. Those babies have a shelf-life, I believe, of roughly 99
years, but the ones I bought on Sunday were no older than five or six
years, I'd guess. Fresh.
And I'd saved myself from the slipper slope of crumbs in crevices, and all that
stuff. I was snacking smart!
Then I jumped back behind the wheel, and started driving toward the
interstate entrance. And just as I was merging into traffic I was hit
with a powerful sneezing jag. There were four or five in rapid-fire
succession, just as I was attempting to slide between two 18-wheelers.
No chance to adequately cover-up and take preventative measures.
And, sure enough, during the last sneeze a chocolaty glob of spit and
snot rocketed from my mouth and stuck to the steering wheel. I
think I literally shrieked like a schoolgirl! It was shaped like Cuba
and I thought some it might be working its way down into the horn
mechanism. I was in a state of terror.
But I was lucky. It was a fairly sturdy glob, and I was able to wipe it
away with ease. There was no seepage whatsoever. I think the Hostess
preservatives saved me from disaster.
Whew!
-- Speaking of being distracted in traffic, check out this
pic that Surf Reporter Garrett snapped over the weekend, in
Dripping Springs, Texas. Is that not excellent? I submit that it is.
And I think that'll do it for today, boys and girls. I'll leave you now
with an item from the Stealing Clive
Bull's Topics desk:
What vegetable do you think Justin Timberlake looks like?
--
August is almost over (somehow), and there's already a hint of fall in
the air up here. I love it. As I drove back from West Virginia on Sunday
it just kept getting cooler and cooler the farther north I traveled --
the temperature gauge on the dash went down down down, as I drove up up
up. I started out in ice water country (still hotter than the piss of an
owl down there), and by the time I reached our driveway I was sensing
the unmistakable pull of bourbon season.