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.
--
A guy was in my office earlier this week telling me about the deer he
killed over the weekend. He seemed exceedingly proud of himself, and
that's fine. I have no problem with hunting, it's just an activity that
never much appealed to me personally.
When I was a youngling, many of my classmates would go out in the woods
with their fathers and uncles and whatnot, and shoot squirrels and
rabbits. I was always happy that my Dad never invited me to join him for
an afternoon of slaughter, but it was something I kept to myself.
...That, along with the fact that I couldn't give one tiny butt squeezin'
about football, pro or otherwise.
In West Virginia, and everywhere else, I'm sure, you learn to keep your
mouth shut about certain things. (Do you have any such dark secrets to
share?)
When I moved to Scranton I was talking to a guy in the warehouse at
work, who was busy dismantling a wooden pallet. I asked him what he was
doing, and he said he was going to use the boards for a tree stand. I
said, "For your Christmas tree?" The man looked at me like I
was wearing a sash of penises. But I was serious, I had no idea what he
was talking about. And that's how much I know about it.
Since I don't golf either, I'm probably missing out on a lot of
networking opportunities. Right? Men earn big-time promotions in the
woods and on the golf course, I'm convinced, and I've shut myself out of
both. While the rest of the world is out laying the groundwork for vice
presidency, or whatever, I'm sitting off by myself scouring the internet
for Boomtown Rats CDs. And, as far as I can tell, that doesn't usually
translate into career advancement.
So I was thinking.... It's the violent act of shooting the
animals I don't believe I'd care for. But what about strangulation?
That's not nearly as brutal, and it probably wouldn't generate quite so
many nightmares. Wonder if that would be an acceptable alternative?
I could start out small, like the kids back at good ol' Dunbar
Elementary. I could go out on a Saturday morning, sneak up on a
squirrel, and choke the life out of him. From there I could work my way
up to rabbits, and maybe even those scary-ass turkeys. And if all goes
well, I'd be ready to take on deer by the time next year's hunting
season rolls around.
What do you think? I'm excited! I can almost smell the leather furniture
in my corner office already.
-- Speaking of work, there's a woman there
who shuffles past my office at least ten times daily. And I mean shuffles,
literally. As far as I can tell, her feet never actually leave the
floor. She just drags one forward, holds it there, then drags the other
one in front of it. And this is repeated until she finally arrives at
her destination. It looks like she's cross-country skiing, without all
the hassles of equipment.
When she first showed up a few months ago, I thought something must
surely be wrong with her, and I'd give her a friendly little nod as she
shuffled past. But she never returned my nod, not once, so screw her. In
fact, her expression never changes, regardless of the situation. And
it's no expression at all: she just stares straight ahead, like she's
watching CNN.
So I've been absolved of feeling sorry about whatever condition causes
her feet to be so heavy. Right? I was trying to give her the benefit of
the doubt, because of her Concrete Block Syndrome, or whatever it is,
but she vetoed it. And now I'm free to express my feelings openly,
whenever she shuffles past, complete with loud sighing and the rolling
of eyes.
Am I wrong about this? Am I out of line? A person can't just refuse to
return a nod, then expect no consequences. Especially when you're a
shuffler, wracked with CBS, and making all manner of foot-dragging
noises in the hallways.
-- I've mentioned this before, but it's happened again. Every five or
six weeks or so, my printer at work loses its shit. When I turn it on in
the morning, it goes through its normal warm-up process, then starts
spitting out page after page of gibberish. It prints a single line
across the top of each sheet of paper, of symbols like stars and smiley
faces and half-moons. And it prints and prints and prints.
I've tried everything I know to make it stop. I've tried canceling the
print job, but there isn't one to cancel. I've turned the printer off,
let it sit for five minutes, then turned it back on. And as soon as the
power switch is thrown, the craziness starts all over again. Same goes
for pulling the actual cable out of the back of the thing. As soon as I
replace it, I've got three hundred additional pages with lightning bolts
and envelopes at the top. And I don't know about the rest of you, but I
don't have much use for such a thing.
I talked to someone on the help desk, and the guy said, "Is it an
HP?" I told him it was, and he answered, "Well, there you
go." What the hell does that mean?!
It doesn't happen very often, but when it does I just have to let it go.
When the paper runs out, I put the same stack back into the tray, and
wait until it runs out again. Over and over. By the time it gets
finished, it smells like I'm sitting inside a toner cartridge.
And it causes me delays, and makes it very difficult to prepare for the
One O'Clock Ballbuster.
Any ideas on how I can stop this from happening again? Other than,
"Well, there you go?" I'd be much obliged. My boss's input?
Uproarious laughter, and a suggestion to bring in a Catholic priest for
an exorcism.
--
A guy was in my office earlier this week telling me about the deer he
killed over the weekend. He seemed exceedingly proud of himself, and
that's fine. I have no problem with hunting, it's just an activity that
never much appealed to me personally.