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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 Iím an Ugly American living on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, Pennsylvania. And Iím here to serve, baby.

Do us a solid? 



The State of My Fat Ass                        A journal of sorts, updated every once in a while.


March 6, 2003

-- I was talking to a friend a few nights ago and he told me a story worth repeating, if for no other reason than to celebrate the fact that the shit has miraculously not yet happened to me. Apparently one of his other West Virginia buddies (somebody I don't know) recently moved to Columbus and, upon attempting to secure an Ohio driver's license, ended up neck-deep in problems.

After filling out the necessary forms, and providing the proper documentation, the DMV lady told him they'd be unable to issue him a license, because of an "unresolved incident" on his record in West Virginia. Unresolved incident? The hell? He was baffled. They gave him a phone number to call, and he left scratching his head.

When he got home he called the Department of Motor Vehicles in his former state, and they told him he'd need to talk to a particular sheriff in Wayne County. Wayne County...hmm. Things were slowly starting to come back to him. But that was like, ten years ago. Surely it couldn't be his unresolved incident, could it?

Years ago, when he was wild and irresponsible, he'd been pulled over in Wayne County, WV and had been ticketed for an expired license, car registration, and lapsed insurance policy. A perfect trifecta. It had cost him loads of money, but that had all been handled back when the other George Bush was President. Surely this was all just some kind of mistake, right?

He tracked down the sheriff and he was reportedly a character straight out of the movies, complete with thick Southern accent and no tolerance of nonsense. He was probably overweight as well, and chewed a kitchen match during all waking hours. He confirmed that the fine had indeed been paid, but there was still the matter of the forty-eight hours of jail time left to serve.

What?! He told the sheriff he knew nothing about jail time, he lives in Ohio and never makes trouble for anyone; couldn't they just forget it since so many years had passed?

Nope, was the simple answer. Forty-eight hours was the sentence, and forty-eight hours ye shall serve, he said.

My friend's friend couldn't believe it. He would've thanked God if he were only shitting bricks. He had some acquaintances in state government, and frantically dialed their numbers to see if there was anything that could be done. This was nuts. It sounded promising

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