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.
--
I made it through the company Christmas party last night without
incident. No fires, no fist fights, and no uncontrollable sobbing....
You won't find my photo on the Smoking Gun this morning, and I didn't
spend the night in a jail cell with a man known only as
"Chicago." I consider it a victory.
The party was scheduled to start at 5 o'clock, and was held at a bar I'd
never been to, in a town I'd never heard of. I followed another guy from
work, and we wound through residential areas, across bridges, and past
grocery stores with unfamiliar names. I began to wonder if we were even
still in Pennsylvania. How in God's name would I find my way home?!
Finally we arrived, and it was a drinking establishment of the
shitkicker variety. They were blasting horrible contemporary
"country" music inside (Hank Williams is spinning in his
grave), and the bathrooms were labeled, Cowboys and Cowgirls. There were
dozens of strangers surrounding the bar, many still bound-up in work
clothes, talking real loud and pouring draft beer down their necks as if
they were entered in some sort of contest.
And, of course, smoking. The whole world, it seemed, was smoking. I
think I'm going to have to throw my jacket in the trash.
They'd partitioned-off a corner of the bar for us, and a few people had
already arrived. Nobody seemed to know what to do, and there was a brief
period of standing around and feeling uncomfortable. But a hostess(?)
finally passed out stickers that said PARTY on them, and we were told to
put them on our shirts. These stickers, she said, gave us full access to
anything and everything served there. "So, have fun!"
she shouted, just as chipper as shit.
Most acted like it was Christmas morning, and almost sprinted to the
bar. They were treating it like a buffet of booze: let's see, I'll have
one of these, and maybe a couple of those....
But, because of the full line-up of mental illnesses, I started looking
into the future, and saw myself pulled over by a cop with five or six
beers sloshing around in my belly, and a comically-oversized signboard
stuck to the front of my shirt that read PARTY. And it wasn't a pretty
picture.
I ordered some kind of Samuel Adams winter brew (tasty!), and got a few,
"Well get a load of Mr. Fancy Pants" glances. But I'll be
damned if I'm drinking Coors Light, out of the plastic bottle with
easy-pour neck, or whatever. Especially when everything is free. I
defiantly took my fag beer and returned to our corner.
And it wasn't too bad. They eventually
brought out a bunch of pizzas and hot wings and a giant sub sandwich cut
up into about a hundred individual servings. I talked to people, drank a
few more of those spicy beers, and ate sausage pizza. But, way back in
the musty recesses of my mind I worried about a DUI. It was nagging at
me, not allowing me to fully cut loose.
Lord knows I never used to give it a thought. I'm not proud of it, but I
have a long history of not giving it a thought. I used to quote
Kinison, the great philosopher, who once said, "How are we supposed
to get home?!"
But, of course, that was in the old days, before I
was married and had kids and responsibilities and common sense. Now I
live in fear of the DUI roadblock, and "Mr. Kay step out of the
vehicle, and remove your pants and undergarments." I don't know why
that last part is always tacked-on, but it is.
I talked to a guy who saw the queer beer in my hand, and was shocked to
learn that he has an apparent encyclopedic knowledge of microbrews. Who
knew? We talked for a long time about the Pacific Northwest beers I
love, and not only had he heard of them, but also knew their history. I
would've never guessed him the type. And now I suppose we'll have
something to talk about at the office, besides, "Busy?"
There was only one uncomfortable moment. A woman asked where I live, I
told her, and her face scrunched-up with open disgust. It was as if she
went from liking me to hating me, in an instant. But, of course, this is
nothing new, and I shouldn't let it irritate me. I shouldn't but I do.
Somehow we ended up buying a house in a town the locals view as uppity
and snooty. When we moved here we knew nothing of the area, and based
our decision on school district, and nothing else. As it turns out, our
town has a reputation for being full of rich snobs who believe their
solid waste carries the aroma of fresh flowers and apple pie.
It's not really true (if I'm rich then the Pope plays bass in Night
Ranger), but that perception took hold a long time before we got here,
and there's no changing it. And folks will let you know how they feel
about it too, loud and clear. Just speaking the name is like blowing a
big saucy cauliflower fart in their presence. Assumptions are jumped to, and
opinions are formed, all willy-nilly.
Whatever. I slowly savored four beers, between the hours of five and
eight, and got the hell out of there. By the time I left, a big chunk of
the group had splintered off and were doing shots and getting wild.
There was chanting going on, and the whole gang was sporting big ol'
Jack O' Lantern grins. I have a feeling many of them won't be at work
today....
But that's their problem. Fuck 'em. Have Jeeves bring the car around.
-- I promised to tell you about my conversation with the Shuffler today,
but it'll have to wait until next time. I need to call it a day here.
Before I go, though, I have a few bloggy links for ya.
This is an excellent list of the Ten Creepiest Fast Food Mascots. I
think I've written about Mr. Softee before. Holy shit! And who can argue
with their number one choice? Certainly not me.
And here's another list, also excellent, of the 40 Best Celebrity
Rumors. Some of 'em are new to me, and most of the descriptions are
hilarious. Be sure to check it out.
Did they miss anything on either of those lists? If so, tell us about it
in the comments. Tell us about it, real good.
And finally.... a Surf Report holiday tradition. This is Red Sovine,
performing the seasonal favorite "Billy's Christmas Wish." As
I've mentioned before, I am a blood relative of Red Sovine; he was my
paternal grandmother's first cousin. I'm not sure what that makes him to
me, but something. The song is a real uplifting experience, featuring
Santa Claus, tales of drunken abuse, and orphan death. Pass the eggnog!
--
I made it through the company Christmas party last night without
incident. No fires, no fist fights, and no uncontrollable sobbing....
You won't find my photo on the Smoking Gun this morning, and I didn't
spend the night in a jail cell with a man known only as
"Chicago." I consider it a victory.