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 won an eBay auction a few days ago, and after it was over I saw that
the seller doesn't accept PayPal. Grrr...
So I was forced to turn the place upside-down to find an envelope (Toney
wasn't home and what do I know about it?). Then I had to write detailed
directions to the guy's house on the outside of the thing, and up in the
corner: directions back to our house in case something goes
wrong.
After I was finished with that I had to find my checkbook, which was
inexplicably in the trunk of my car. I sat down and wrote the date, the
dude's name, how much money I was ceding to him in numerals, then again
in words. That, of course, was followed by the long line which
presumably stops thieves from writing the word MILLION in front of the
pre-printed DOLLARS, and causing my account to be overdrawn by
$999,899.00 -- before overdraft fees. Then I signed my name, which
didn't look quite as cool as I'd hoped (which irritates me), there was a
brief consideration of the mysterious Memo line, and I was done with
Phase Two.
I tore the check out of the book with care, not wanting to rip the bitch
in half, something that happens to me quite often. I stuffed everything
into the envelope with the directions on the outside, licked the glue
strips and thought about George Castanza's girlfriend, and what happened
to her after licking envelopes. I reaffirmed that I'm not ready
to die yet, and resented all the unnecessary risk-taking.
I got in my car and drove across town, then tried to find a parking
space at the post office. There was one spot, but it looked to be a tad
narrow. I'm still thinking of my car as new (how long does that last?),
and pictured some bearclaw-eating hog kicking her pink Mary Kay door
open with her foot, making safe passage for her ample ass, and in the
process adding a nice long crease to my front passenger door. So I drove
all the way to the end of the line, where there would only be a car to
one side of me, thus reducing my exposure by fifty percent.
Inside I had to wait in line because the stamp machine was out of order,
and the person in front of me was holding a package with twine tied
around it. What's that all about anyway? I never understood it. What
purpose does package string serve? I've been wondering this all my life.
We were waiting on a miniature senior
citizen, who looked like a regular senior citizen, just shrunk way down
to comical proportions. She was bitching to beat the band, about
receiving mail at her house addressed to a man she doesn't know. This
was the third time, she said, and she's getting tired of it.
The clerk made the mistake of saying, "Well, if it's addressed to
your house...." This caused the pocket-sized golden-ager to take it
up yet another notch, and practically screamed: "I've lived in that
house for 45 years! You people know who lives there, and there's no
Frank goddamn McKee!!"
The clerk, clearly a glutton for punishment, told her that if it happens
again, she should just write "Not At This Address" on the
envelope, and give it to her carrier.
"OH NO!" the portable oldster hollered, "I won't be held
responsible if he loses it. Everybody knows he drinks, and you're not
going to hang it on me if it's something important and doesn't make it
to this McKinney fellow. JUST STOP BRINGING ME MAIL THAT BELONGS
TO SOMEBODY ELSE!!" I put that last part in caps because it was
said in a wild unhinged screech. Then she added that every time it happens she
has to walk to the post office "all the way from School
Street," and she's getting goddamn tired of it.
Me and Mr. Twine Package exchanged amused glances, and finally the
single-serving senior turned on her heel, stomped across the room,
reached way above her head for the door handle, and dramatically left
the building. Everybody in the place made an effort not to laugh, but
with limited success.
After Twiney finished his transaction (lightning-fast by comparison), it
was finally my turn. The cashier looked at my envelope, then back at me,
and said with annoyance, "This all?" Man, I almost went over
that counter.
From now on it's PayPal or nothing for me. I mean, what the hell? I
could've paid the guy with three or four clicks of the mouse, while
eating a TastyKake. But nooo, I had to hand a person a piece of
paper, who will hand it to another person, who will put it in a truck
and drive it all around.... What is this, the Eisenhower era?! It's
hilarious. I barely even know how to operate a stamp anymore.
But whatever.
-- Before I go, I'd like to share with you A Few Important Things.
This was in Saturday's newspaper here. Any idea what they're talking
about? Is that where Madonna buys her dancers, when she's not out
shopping for African babies? Do you have to pay with three dollar bills?
Help me out, people, I'm completely confused.
Last week, if you remember, we had a spirited discussion about crapping
here at TheWVSR, and over the weekend I received an excellent email from
gregscalade on the subject. I asked his permission to reprint it for you
guys, and he agreed. So here it is. Don't miss it.
Finally, it's Tuesday and that means it's time for another dispatch from
Normal, over at Jason Headley Dotcom. Read it here.
And that'll do it for today, my friends. Have a great day, and I'll see
ya tomorrow.
--
I won an eBay auction a few days ago, and after it was over I saw that
the seller doesn't accept PayPal. Grrr...