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 Andy was in the front yard snorkeling around and
tip-toeing through the tulips, when he suddenly began his approach. It's
a highly technical process, a dog taking a crap, and an amazing thing to
observe. He zeroed in on the approximate target, humped up like a
kangaroo, then started going around and around. Every once in a while it
seemed like he was ready to stop his spinning, his search for the
perfect spot, only to ratchet up the rotations all over again.
The suspense was palpable.
Finally he lowered the landing gear, reduced power, and lifted his
flaps. And just as the task was started, a big red truck came screaming
up the hill and wheezed and sighed to a stop in front of our house. It
was a guy making a water delivery to the people across the street. He
jumped out of the cab and noisily rolled-up the tall doors on the side
of the truck, and proceeded to remove two or three of those bloop bloop
water cooler jugs.
Andy was not a fan of any it. Apparently all the racket scared him, and
he abruptly cut-off operations. I saw that he had a turd sticking straight
out, like a handlebar grip protruding from his ass. And he started
going wild.
He ran in a big circle around the yard, just wide-open, and was making
weird huffing noises like a Clydesdale in full trot. Occasionally he'd
slow down and try to re-assume the kangaroo position, before thinking
better of it and rocketing off again. Then he began making little
yelping noises, and rolling across the lawn. WTS??
I saw that the convenient easy-grip handle was still in place.
He had a wild look in his eyes, like something dangerous was chasing
him, and every once in a while he'd throw himself sideways and roll a
few feet. A new maneuver, for sure. Then he'd get back up and start
running again. Eventually he began dragging his ass across the yard, and
looked at me with a sad "please do something" expression on
his snoutly face.
Oh no, I panicked, am I going to have to scrape it out with a stick?
Like that rugby team whose airplane crashed in the Andes?! But after the
truck finally went away, and following twenty or so torturous laps
around the yard, he wandered into Half-Shirt territory and picked up
where he'd originally left off.
It might've just been my imagination,
but I thought I could actually hear the sound of a cork coming out of a
bottle. Then the handgrip was no more, followed by a few other assorted
goodies, and everything was back to normal. As he jogged back to the
house there was a happy spring to his step.
But it was an excruciating affair, I'm telling you. And both of us
required a nap.
-- Surf Reporter Joseph sent along this
photo of something he spotted on an Arby's bag over the weekend.
Heh.
-- And I took this one myself.
It's in front of a shop not far from our house, and apparently they're
serving up wireless donuts there! Can any of you tech-savvy folks out
there tell me what kind of special equipment, if any, I'd require to
interface with these delicious pastries?
-- Here's a cool site that
will translate your name into Russian.
-- And this
is an article I read yesterday, about Neil Armstrong's revised
first words spoken on the moon. Apparently this has been a controversy
for years? I had no idea. I thought the mystery had been solved
a long time ago?
-- Finally, I need your help with something. For Christmas we want to
buy both Secrets a decent stereo for their new bedrooms, and, as a
personal project for me, I'd like to start them out with a good solid
musical foundation. It's something I'm going to work on, over time. I
want to give them each five or six CDs that will hopefully form the
cornerstone of a lifetime of good musical taste.
The one definite selection will be the Beatles' 1
, but it gets a little blurry after that. Oh, there's hundreds of things
I could choose, but you can't just go into it all willy-nilly. Many
artists, I believe, can't be appreciated until you become familiar with
some other artist. Ya know? You start jumping the queue, mister,
and you're just asking for trouble.
So, help me out with this one. And remember, the Secrets are only ten
and eight years old; the Captain Beefheart catalog and We're The
Meatmen... And You Suck! aren't gonna work. No, I'm looking for the
basic building blocks, the fundamentals that will form a solid
background for a lifetime of haughty you-may-approach-the-throne rock
snobbery.
I'd appreciate your assistance. Use the comments link below.
--
A few days ago Andy was in the front yard snorkeling around and
tip-toeing through the tulips, when he suddenly began his approach. It's
a highly technical process, a dog taking a crap, and an amazing thing to
observe. He zeroed in on the approximate target, humped up like a
kangaroo, then started going around and around. Every once in a while it
seemed like he was ready to stop his spinning, his search for the
perfect spot, only to ratchet up the rotations all over again.
, but it gets a little blurry after that. Oh, there's hundreds of things
I could choose, but you can't just go into it all willy-nilly. Many
artists, I believe, can't be appreciated until you become familiar with
some other artist. Ya know? You start jumping the queue, mister,
and you're just asking for trouble.