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.
--
This might come as a surprise to some of you, but when I was in school I
hated gym class. When I finally reached a point in my sub-par
public education where "phys ed" became an elective, I elected
to steer way clear of that swirling pit of assholes and armpits, and
went with other valuable options instead. Such as Rock/Pop Music Survey,
Singles Survival, and, of course, Office Aide.
See you in hell, Coach Comer!
This morning my brain is fried-up like a skillet of grandma's scrapple,
and I've decided to just briefly relay to you some of my gym memories
that jump immediately to mind. This will certainly not be a complete set
of gym-related fucked-upnesses, and probably won't even be very
well-executed. But what are you going to do? I'm barely upright here.
-- During Junior High they occasionally rolled a big-ass trampoline out
into the middle of the floor, and we were required to jump on it, do
flips, and engage in all manner of nonsense. But it wasn't the the
jumping I hated, it was the "spotting."
When we weren't on the trampoline itself, you see, we had to stand along
the edges of the thing and make sure nobody came rocketing off and
exploded their spinal cord on the hardwoods.
I didn't care for that. And if one of those big bulls had ever come
hurtling in my direction, I almost certainly would've stepped aside and
let them continue on their journey. Like I'm going to be able to catch,
in my arms, freakin' Paul Spradling free-falling from the rafters of
a gymnasium. Oh, those guys probably didn't know it (or maybe they
did), but they were completely on their own....
One day some kid was jumping on that bouncy platform of concern, when he
suddenly sprang forward and smashed his face on the canvas. We all
chuckled, but instantly stopped laughing when he stood up looking like
Gene Simmons. He had impossibly-red blood gushing out of his mouth, and
running down his neck. The dude jumped off the trampoline and ran
outside, where he commenced to hawking up the big chunk of tongue he'd
just bitten off.
Shit!
-- In high school we were required to
wrestle. Some new high-pockets gym teacher showed up, all jacked-up on
wrestling, and insisted we be exposed to the "sport." He
showed us some moves, and went through the whole thing, then paired us
off with people roughly our own weight.
I had to wrestle a guy called Ziggy, and when it was our turn to, um,
compete, I basically just laid down. I tried not to be too obvious about
it, but put forth very little effort and let the guy pin me. And just
like that, I was out of that little tournament of homo-eroticism.
Excellent.
Some guy named Edens was wrestling after me, and didn't lay down at all.
Man, he was going after it! And as he thrashed about, we all heard a
loud CRACK! It sounded like somebody snapped a tree branch in
two. And the dude started hollering like a wild Indian. He jumped to his
feet, and his right arm looked like it suddenly had two elbows in it.
The shit was all ratcheted off to one side, bent at an angle unfamiliar
to most humans.
High pockets got him out of there, and to the emergency room, and rest
of us just silently walked back to the locker room, our faces whiter
than notebook paper. Even the black guys'.
-- In Junior High we had to line up so the coach could verify
attendance, then he'd often blow his whistle and let us do whatever
activity we wanted. (Teaching at its finest!) On one such day I ended up
playing a pointless game called Four Square. I was at the first square,
where the serving was done, when some kid came running over and ordered
me to move.
I'd been having trouble with this asshole for a few days. I barely even
knew him, but he'd started needling me and giving me shit for reasons
unknown. I told him to get out of my face, and he shoved me.
That's when something inside me snapped, and I was overcome by a
blinding white-hot rage. I reared way back, brought my fist all the way
up from Cincinnati, and blasted the guy right in the face, below his
left eye. Man, I'd never hit someone so hard in my entire life. There
was a loud smack, like in the movies, and the whole gym went
silent as the kid sat there blinking wildly, with cartoon birds circling
his head.
The gym teacher grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me to the locker
room, where he yelled for a really long time. After class ended, and
while kids were getting dressed, he called everyone over. He had them
circle around, then ordered me to assume the position. I was
forced to put both hands on top of a desk, while the coach whacked my ass
with a big wooden paddle with holes drilled through it. He gave me three
or four good licks, while my classmates laughed and cheered him on.
Good times.
-- Also in Junior High, there was some homo from England who suddenly
showed up out of nowhere. How a kid with a thick British accent ended up
in 1970's West Virginia, I'll never know. But he was there, and he was a
prick.
One day we were playing volleyball, and I hit one into the net. Prince
Albert, who seemed to actually give a crap, came running over and
started screaming in my face about it. He was hollering all sorts of
apeshit belligerence, in front of the whole class, and I felt that
familiar old
Four Square rage bubbling up again. I was still holding the ball, and as
the guy continued yelling I hurled it at him at close range, hitting him
full in the face. Jets of blood shot out of both nostrils, and he began
howling like a bloodhound.
Again I was dragged to the locker room, and given a raft full of shit.
And to my surprise, a bunch of kids in the class told me afterwards I
was out of line. I figured I'd be received as a hero, but they all
turned on me.
Junior High School just sucked and sucked and sucked, and
continues to suck to this day, deep inside my battered psyche....
And we'll see how it goes, but I might finish off my list of violent and
brutal gym class memories tomorrow. I only made it through about half of 'em.
I haven't even taken you guys inside the locker room yet.
Do you have anything to add to this subject? Use the comments link
below.
--
This might come as a surprise to some of you, but when I was in school I
hated gym class. When I finally reached a point in my sub-par
public education where "phys ed" became an elective, I elected
to steer way clear of that swirling pit of assholes and armpits, and
went with other valuable options instead. Such as Rock/Pop Music Survey,
Singles Survival, and, of course, Office Aide.