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.
--
Remember the Apple Eater? He was the person I used to share an office
with at work. He's a nice guy and everything, but he eats, like, a peck
of apples every day. Very loudly. He snorts and grunts, and bludgeons
that fruit into submission. Oh, he shows it who's boss alright, and it
drove me crazy.
That, coupled with the fact that our office was located directly across
the hall from the bathrooms made for quite an enjoyable work experience.
We'd hear the sound of someone sprinting through the hall, followed by
an apocalyptic assplosion, and then the funk would start drifting in
like fog off the bay. Simply excellent. As my old Atlanta buddy Scott
would put it, somebody need to see a physician!
Oh, one more thing to bitch about.... The Apple Eater also insisted on
listening to ESPN radio through his tinny laptop speakers every day, and
that was perhaps the worst part of all. It's just non-stop assholes with
New York accents talking all belligerently and acting as if they can't
believe it, accompanied by audio clips of athletes saying things like,
"Well, all we can do is go out there every day and play hard."
Horrible.
But we haven't shared an office in a long time, and neither of us is
near the bathroom anymore. And for some reason we get along a lot better
now.... Earlier this week I was passing by his door, and he was sitting
in there by himself. He was intently looking at his computer screen, and
just as I went past, he hollered, "Oh yeah? Well, I've got your
battery recall swingin', pal!"
I just kept walking.
-- A few days ago I received a catalog in the mail, called KingSize.
It's apparently a company that sells clothes and caters to the husky
man. And it came addressed to me(!). Do you think I'm in some kind
of international database of fatties now? How did this happen?! Did I
finally pile on enough weight to trigger the mailing of catalogs with a
swaddling theme? I don't think I care for any of it.
As I flip through the thing I see jeans that start at a 44 waist,
and go up to 72. Forty-four is apparently considered petite to these
folks. And there's a page of underwear, with descriptions that emphasize
the "heat resistant" fibers used. Because, I guess, we stout
men can sometimes generate a white-hot solar flare in the crotch of our
britches while waddling to the vending machine, and require a thermal
barrier to protect ourselves and others.
Like I said, I don't care for any of it.
-- I've mentioned this before, but it's
still bothering me. It seems that every time we go out to dinner as a
family, there's a wandering magician there. Have any of you encountered
this? They stroll around the restaurants looking for a party with little
kids, then swoop in with the "entertainment."
I'm not really a fan of the interactive dining experience, and wish
those guys would just leave us alone. It casts a gloom of worry over the
entire dinner. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, checking the
guy's location, and preparing to take counter-measures if necessary.
"Don't make eye contact," I tell the Secrets, even though it's
no longer necessary to remind them. And since I don't believe the
magicians are allowed to approach anyone who is actually eating, Toney
and I always order soup or a salad (even if we don't want one), so we'll
have food on our table sooner. Conversely, when we're finished with our
meals, we don't allow the waitress to remove our plates, so they can be
used as props in the event of an emergency.
Yes, we've got our procedure honed to the point where our only real
exposure is during the period between the ordering of our meals, and
when the salads arrive. That's the only blind-spot.
But we're working to close that gap as well. It seems that if we pretend
to be having a deep Important Conversation, it acts as an effective
magician repellent. On a recent visit to Bennigan's I even went so far
as to pretend I was sobbing into my napkin. However, the illusion was
broken by the fact that Toney and the boys started cracking up. So there
was a middle-aged "KingSize" man sitting there blubbering,
while his family laughed in his face.
Not exactly what I had in mind, but it worked. I saw a brief "holy
fuck!" expression cross the dude's face, and he went off to become
somebody else's problem. This weekend I think I'm going to have to sit
everyone down, and work on our execution. Sure, we got the desired
result, but it was sloppy, real sloppy.
We can do so much better.
-- And I'll leave you now with a link to a fun site where you can watch
dozens and dozens of old TV commercials. Right
here. I don't know why I
love this kind of thing, but I do. I can't watch just one.
What are your favorite vintage
commercials, or public service announcements? Tell us about it, won't
you? And save me from this lame-ass Question of the Day.... Sweet Maria.
Damn, why does today feel so powerfully like Friday?
--
Remember the Apple Eater? He was the person I used to share an office
with at work. He's a nice guy and everything, but he eats, like, a peck
of apples every day. Very loudly. He snorts and grunts, and bludgeons
that fruit into submission. Oh, he shows it who's boss alright, and it
drove me crazy.