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.
--
I have an eye doctor appointment this morning, so I'm working under an
actual deadline today. We'll see how it goes....
This may come as a shock to some of you, but I'm not a big fan of the
medical examinations. I'm always convinced, fully convinced, that
they'll find something horrible, and I'll be asked into the doctor's
business office and told to close the door behind me. I've learned that
nothing good ever comes once you're told to close the door behind you.
One of these days I just know the guy is going to say, "Mr. Kay,
it's your eyes. They're going to have to come out." Or I'll be
handed an informational pamphlet on seeing
eye horses, or whatever. I've been this way all my life. I'm faced
with something out of the ordinary, and my brain automatically starts
trolling for the worst possible outcome.
And it doesn't have to work too hard when it comes to doctors.... Oh,
I've seen my share of made-for-TV movies. Shit!
But I'm sure everything will be fine, right? I need a new pair of
contacts, and that's all there is to it. He'll do the exam, order the
things from the NASA labs or wherever they get my crazy corrective
lenses, and I'll be at Waffle House by noon, enjoying a big bowl of
Bert's Chili. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.
In any case, the local guy is nowhere near as fun as my Cursing Eye
Doctor in California. Out there he'd lower the big apparatus to my face,
and start flipping various lenses into place. Then he'd start asking me
what I thought: "Is this any better? How's this? Shitty? And this
one? Shitty or better? Is this one shittier than the last one, or
better? Shitty? Better? Shitty? Better?"
Now THAT was an eye doctor who spoke my language.
-- Speaking of doctors, a guy at work told me an excellent story
yesterday that I'm compelled to share with you. Because, you see, it
involves the nutsack.
He said that yesterday morning he was toweling off after stepping out of
the shower, and noticed that he was smearing blood all over himself. The
hell?? He had it all over his chest, down both legs, and up both arms.
Following a frantic examination, he realized that his scrotum was
dripping blood!
This understandably freaked him out. He
put pressure on his sac (not too much!), and eventually got the bleeding
to stop. But he thought he'd better go see his doctor about it. Because,
once again, his scrotum was dripping blood!
When he arrived at the doctor's office he was informed that his regular
doctor was not there, and wouldn't be there until next week. If it
couldn't wait, he'd have to see the doctor's partner -- a woman. He
groaned, but told the receptionist he'd better see her today; he didn't
think it could wait.
Sweating bullets, he told the doc his story. She chuckled, and said it's
probably nothing to worry about. She showed him an entry in a medical
book that described his situation almost perfectly, and she assured him
that it was no big deal.
But just to be sure.... she'd have to take a look. And, this is the best
part. She told him that her insurance required that a third person be in
the room during the exam, and nobody else was there except the
receptionist -- a woman in her sixties that he knows from church!
He gulped and said OK, then added, "If you decide to start bringing
in people from the waiting room or off the street, I want to charge
admission."
It was something along the lines of a busted blood blister, which is
what the doctor suspected. She gave him the option of doing nothing, or
having it "repaired." He went with the latter, fearing that
his "balls would explode" in a business meeting, and he'd
suddenly be wearing a pair of khaki Dockers with a big sagging bloody
crotch.
It was a great story, and the way he told it was perfect. I wish I had
it on tape, so I could break it out on long car trips, or whatever. The
dude had me buckled over in laughter.
Has anything like this ever happened to you? If so, we need to know
about it, right away. Use the comments link below, posthaste. Chop chop!
-- And I think that'll just about do it for today, boys and girls. I
have a date with destiny this morning, and need to be strong.
I'll leave you with a picture from yesterday's Charleston Gazette,
of a man near and dear the heart of anyone who grew up in West Virginia
during the 1970s: Mr. Cartoon! He's still around, at the age of 82, and
is reportedly being inducted into the West Virginia Broadcasting Hall of
Fame.
Damn right! Why wasn't he there already? Was he black-balled by a bitter
and jealous Beeper? I demand an investigation!!
And finally, I have three extra-cool Smoking Fish sightings to share
with you. Check 'em out. Are those great, or what? Thanks, folks!
The rest of you
guys keep your eyes open out there, and your cameras ready. Because our
logo, man, he gets around.
--
I have an eye doctor appointment this morning, so I'm working under an
actual deadline today. We'll see how it goes....