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.
--
On Thanksgiving, before the festival of gluttony kicked-off, my Dad and
I took the dogs for a walk. Next door, in the driveway, was a man piling
a stack of folded clothes into the extended cab of a pick-up truck. My
Dad greeted him, and the guy walked over to us.
"She kicked me out again," he said.
My father, as confused as I was, chuckled and said, "Oh, is that
right?" We thought it was some kind of weird joke.
But it wasn't a joke. The man's wife had apparently told him to get out
(on Thanksgiving day), and he was loading up his crap and leaving. He
told us that it had happened once before, when my parents were in
Florida last winter, and he was "stupid enough" to come back.
This time, he vowed, the same mistake would not be made again.
As the man continued, I could tell he about to start crying. He said he
didn't really have anywhere to go, he didn't want to burden his son's
family, but that he'd figure something out. His voice was shaking, and
his bottom lip was quivering. Holy crap! The guy was on the verge of a
full-on meltdown.
I'm sympathetic to such things (I think), but don't really want to
witness it. Ya know? So I acted like Andy was pulling me in the
direction of a telephone pole (it was an award-worthy performance), and
extracted myself from the conversation.
Sweet sainted mother of Mordecai "Three Fingers" Brown.
-- I saw that my parents now have a big star mounted to the front of
their house. I'd noticed that several other houses had it as well. I
asked my Dad what it was all about, as we walked, and he said, "Oh,
I don't know. One of those monkey-see, monkey-do deals, I think."
Wha'? Was he being evasive with me? Any ideas on this? What does it
mean? I've never seen such a thing up here in PA, but they were all over
the place in WV.
Why do I keep flashing back to the "party scene" in Rosemary's
Baby? Crap!
-- My Mom prepared the standard holiday spread: so much food you
practically have to climb beneath the table and hammer in extra supports
to avoid a catastrophic collapse. And, just so you know, I'm a big fan
of the extra-supports style of dining. An aunt and uncle were there,
along with the four of us and my parents, and we all ate until our
organs were threatening to shut down. Good stuff.
During the meal we started talking about
how Thanksgivings used to be at my grandmother's house, on my Dad's
side. It was a huge family, and there'd be dozens of people in
attendance. And for some reason(?!), they had a pecking order when it
came to dinner.
The men ate first, then the kids, and finally the women. By the time the
ladies got their turn at the table the meat was reportedly picked over,
and the vegetables and bread completely cold. So it would be a pile of
gristle with a slice of congealed gravy balanced on top, and dinner
rolls not warm enough to melt the butter.
I'm kinda surprised that everyone went along with such a questionable
scheme. Oh, I have a few uncles who wouldn't have a problem with it. But
my Dad's certainly not like that, and some of the women involved weren't
exactly delicate flowers, if you know what I mean. In fact, I know of
them very well.
"It's just the way it was," was the best explanation I could
get out of my parents. Heh.
-- After dinner there was a lot of sitting around, and that was OK for
about ten minutes. After that, it got a little old. The Secrets were
bored all the way up to the cusp of a coma, and I wasn't far behind
them. Needless to say, there wasn't a drop of booze being consumed, and
the whole thing was quite excruciating. The situation cried-out for
alcohol, with a high piercing tone.
And the next day, on the front page of the newspaper, there was an
article about how West Virginia doesn't drink. Supposedly the state
ranks at number 49 for alcohol consumption per capita, ahead of only
Mormon-spangled Utah. The article attributed it to a strong Methodist
presence in the state. I think I blamed the Baptists last week, but
whatever. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
I much prefer the Catholic puking-into-foliage style of holiday
celebration that's practiced here in northeastern Pennsylvania, thank
you very much.
And in case you couldn't tell, I am a major theologian.
-- The dogs, Andy and my parents' two yappers, were enough to make a
dead man come back to life and yell, "Just shut the hell up!!"
Continuous, sustained barking.... At least that's the way it seemed,
anyway. Every car that drove past the house would trigger another wild
barking jag, and every leaf that fell from a tree, I think. If someone
farted in a kitchen three doors down, one of them would hear it and
start turning back-flips in the grip of some powerful and primal
seizure-like fit. By seven o'clock on Thanksgiving day, I was ready to
slam my face through plate glass, I'm not kidding. It was like astronaut
training in there.
-- On Friday we got out of the house for a while. We took the kids to
some money-sucking joint, and let them ride Go-Karts. That was kinda
fun. The grouchy shockingly-long-cig-ash man who ran the place kept
yelling, "This ain't bumper cars! Stop running into each
other!!" Good times.
We also went to several stores, including Dick's Sporting Goods where we
saw two celebrities: the governor of WV and the football coach
from my now-defunct high school, Coach Good. The governor had his kids
with him, and an entourage. He was walking around smiling that fake
politician smile, and apparently doing a little shopping. Outside we saw
that he'd arrived in a Shania Twain tour bus. No word on Coach Good's
mode of transportation.
And I've got a few more items jotted down in my Big Notebook of Fun but,
frankly, I'm losing enthusiasm for the topic. Question of the day,
before I sign off: Was there anything in the mountain of Black Friday
newspaper ads on Thanksgiving that got yer blood to pumping? I saw
nothing, and that's unusual. Generally I flip through those things and
come across at least one item that gets me all worked up and ready to
storm the Bastille (or whatever).
But I went page by page through every advertisement, and found nothing.
It was all very low-yield. Not even a single CD, or DVD, or anything.
It's shocking. What about you?
Now here's something the National Lampoon sent out last night,
obviously hoping we'd all link to it today. My natural inclination is to
ignore such blatant self-promoting efforts, but found myself actually
laughing this time. So there you go.
And today's Tuesday, so it's time for another dispatch from Around
Normal, over at Jason Headley Dotcom. Right
here.
I'll get back to the regular stuff tomorrow, boys and girls.
--
On Thanksgiving, before the festival of gluttony kicked-off, my Dad and
I took the dogs for a walk. Next door, in the driveway, was a man piling
a stack of folded clothes into the extended cab of a pick-up truck. My
Dad greeted him, and the guy walked over to us.