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.
--
Several weeks ago Toney told me she'd made an appointment to have the
Secrets' picture taken (made, for those of you in Atlanta) at JC
Penney portrait studio. A framed 8x10 "professional" photo of
the grandkids is an easy slam-dunk Christmas present for my parents and
Toney's Mom, and I grunted my acknowledgment, then quickly forgot the
entire conversation. As required by the Couch Wallowers Union, Local
813.
"Remember, we have to take the kids to the mall today," Toney
said on Saturday morning, "to get their pictures done." Wha'?!
It was an OK idea when it was to happen on some abstract futuredate,
but it's not a good idea at all when it's, you know, today. The
pre-bitching kicked-off immediately.
And, as it turns out, it was bitching for a good reason. Sweet sainted
mother of Warren Cheswick, have you ever been subjected to one of those
places around the holidays?! I hadn't, and if I have a say in the matter
(hilarious), I never will again. It was nothing short of horrible.
We arrived ten minutes before our appointment time, and the woman just
about ripped Toney's head off about it. She started gesticulating and
getting her double-chin all in motion, and we slinked away to wait with
the other unfortunate bastards in the bullpen of discomfort. Over by the
lamps and the clocks.
The place was complete pandemonium, cramped, and sweaty hot. And they
were playing the worst Christmas music I've ever heard, at least two
notches too loud. I think it was supposed to be jazz, and there wasn't
even a hint of melody. One tune, which seemed to go on for 45 minutes,
featured a woman scatting and making noises like a retard eating
spicy foods. Another had an ear-piercing coach's whistle in it(?!), and
I began to contemplate the logistics of breaking a mirror and stabbing
myself in the heart with a jagged shard of glass.
The other people in the bullpen were all trussed up in "dress
clothes," stiff and uncomfortable. It was hilarious to watch them
moving around like robots, unable to completely lower their arms,
because their shirts were at least a size too small. One man was wearing
a white button-down, with a tiny sticker with an L on it stuck to the
back of his collar. Heh.
Another guy, who looked like Travis Tritt,
had a cherry-red high-blood-pressure face and dinner-plate sized sweat
stains under his arms. And that's something everyone needs in a
brass frame above their fireplaces. Such a cherished memory.... I
wondered if they'd have him leaning on a "fence," in front of
a snowy backdrop, as sweat poured down his face and blood vessels
exploded in his eyes?
There was also a family all duded-up in novelty sweaters, with two young
boys sporting painfully combed hair. I'm not kidding, it looked like
their parents had rubbed synthetic motor oil into their scalps, then
sculpted their hair into place. I felt an automatic urge to swipe my
bank card through their parts, they were so straight and deep. The shit
reminded me of those old plastic DEVO
hairdos, with chin straps.
We waited, and waited, and waited. I was pacing around and grumbling,
and Toney was on high-alert, convinced the SS officer behind the cash
register would start playing favorites and taking others in front of us.
I looked at every clock in that store, and can now tell you the price
and main features of each of them. Go ahead, test me.
Here's the very first picture I snapped with my new cell phone camera.
You can see the guy with the L back there, all posed and looking so very
natural.
Finally, they called our name, and we were allowed entrance into one of
the "studios." There was a girl on-duty, in her mid-twenties
I'd guess, and she scanned the Secrets up and down and said, "Well,
at least they're not babies." That's the way she greeted us. Then
she launched into a lengthy diatribe about how she "hates" to
photograph babies. Babies and two year olds, she said, quickly
lengthening the list of things she hates.
While speaking, I could tell she was getting angry; it was pissing her
off just thinking about it. The chick clearly needs to find a different
field of employment.... I thought she was about to confess that she
secretly fantasizes about taking a sword and running it clean through
a baby, but she stopped herself before going too far. I'll be
watching the papers for news stories about this woman. It's only a
matter of time.
She started ordering us around, and was so abrupt and mean the youngest
Secret was on the verge of tears. She told me to "be quiet" at
one point, and raised her voice at our kids repeatedly. What kind of
place is this?! But it was over quickly, and I didn't have enough time
to work up a good boil. She was pretty good at taking the edge off with
little jokey pre-scripted asides, so things never got openly hostile.
But we were right up to the cusp of it.
Toney said she'd pick out the poses and order the pictures, and all that
stuff. The boys and I should just go, she suggested. I didn't have to be
told twice, and we made a beeline for Dairy Queen.
There, I ordered four medium Blizzards, and it cost more than thirteen
dollars(!). The zitster behind the counter handed them to me, and the
outside of every cup was slick with ice cream and crap. Before it was
over, my hands and forearms were sticky and I was getting all worked up
about it. Perhaps it was latent aggravation, left over from the
so-called portrait studio? I just don't know.
"Jesus J. McChrist, man," I said to the guy, "Have you
ever heard of wiping this shit off with a rag?" He just looked
at me like I was making porpoise noises.
We went around the corner and sat down on some benches, waiting on Toney
to call my cell phone. As I enjoyed my Oreo Blizzard, a fat man who
looked like Cannon flopped down beside me. Then he farted. I could
actually feel the vibration in the wood. And that was quickly followed
by a stench heavy on the cabbage.
I sprang to my feet, and a teenage girl immediately took my place beside
the corpulent, gassy crime-fighter. Almost without hesitation she
adopted an expression of complete disgust, and shot me a dirty look. I'd
gotten the blame! Grrrr....
When Toney called I suggested we just meet at the car. I wanted to get
out of that madhouse as quickly as possible. She could just have her
Blizzard on the road, thank you very much. The shit was getting out of hand.
And fifteen
minutes later I was pouring bourbon on top of a pound of ice cream and
cookies inside my gut, and soon all was right with the world again.
--
Several weeks ago Toney told me she'd made an appointment to have the
Secrets' picture taken (made, for those of you in Atlanta) at JC
Penney portrait studio. A framed 8x10 "professional" photo of
the grandkids is an easy slam-dunk Christmas present for my parents and
Toney's Mom, and I grunted my acknowledgment, then quickly forgot the
entire conversation. As required by the Couch Wallowers Union, Local
813.
