Category Archives: the funny

Everything is funny in threes. Almost.

I learned three things today.

First, I learned to never put dog food in a compost pile two weeks ago, because if you do then today it will smell like four kinds of dead animal stuffed in a fifth dead animal’s ass. It’s the Turducken of nauseous olfactory overload. Oh, and maggots. There’s also maggots.

In retrospect, it’s an obvious thing to not do.  As it would happen though, two weeks ago my obvious was out on loan to the Casey Anthony jury.  Fat lot of good THAT did.  How many times have I been told to never put meat or oils in a compost pile? None, actually, but I’ve read it plenty of times. In the end, what is dog food but fats and protein and filler? (The filler is also made from fats and protein, and the fats and protein are made from roadkill, and the roadkill is made from animals that got too close to my compost pile.)

Soooo…. I won’t be doing that again.

Second, I learned to wear a pair of goddamned goggles when using my goddamned circular saw. Simply put: My eye! My glasses do NOTHING! Ten minutes in the shower eventually rinsed the splinter out of my eye, but left me looking like Matthew Broderick in Election. Don’t worry. It was temporary. I’m still sexy. And even sexier now I’m wearing giant, incessantly fogged up safety goggles.  This is just a reminder: my tools want to kill me.

And third, from cleaning the garage I learned that I have a crapload of 1/4 inch chipboard. Chipboard: the red-headed stepchild of construction sheathing. It is to laminated plywood what Velveeta is to cheese, or what a desk job is to work. I can’t use it for any outdoor applications, since the stuff swells up in the rain like a disposable diaper. I can use it in place of sheetrock to board up Sara’s side of the garage, though. And so I did. Two thirds of it, anyway. Tomorrow, I do the final third, and maybe remember to share some pics.

Then, bury the compost in a dumptruck’s worth of lime.


Just so we’re clear…

I might go for a jog tomorrow.

Forward Looking Statements

This blog post contains certain forward-looking statements (within the meaning of Section 27A of the Web Log Act of 2001, as amended, and Section 21E of the Words and Ideas Exchange Act of 1998, as amended) and information relating to Patrick Delaney that are based on the beliefs of the person of Patrick Delaney as well as assumptions made by and information currently available to the idea of Patrick Delaney.  When used in this communication, the words “I,” “might,” “go,” “for,” “a,” “jog,” “tomorrow”  and similar expressions, as they relate to Patrick Delaney or the manifestation of Patrick Delaney, identify forward-looking statements.  Such statements reflect the current views of Patrick Delaney with respect to future events, the outcome of which is subject to certain risks, including, among others, general economic environment and personal spending patterns, decreased (or increased) notice of the girth of Patrick Delaney’s person, low desire to wake early, functionality, use and frequency of use of the snooze button, possible risks associated with long distance running, possible disruptions in Patrick Delaney’s digestive tract, sinuses or the availability of treatment medications for the like, wardrobe malfunctions, loss of sense of self, over inflated sense of self, onset of single or multiple additional unauthorized personalities, road closings, failures in temporal constants or reversal of the accepted flow of time, thinking it’s Thursday when it totally isn’t, unanticipated decreases in temperatures, increases in wind speed or non-appearances of the Sun, online porn, ramifications arising from the unexpected appearance of dogs, the mitigating factors associated with of the various availabilities of good sneakers, the changing of Patrick Delaney’s mind, the performance of Patrick Delaney’s online, digital and other initiatives, good oral hygiene, possible effects of extended periods of pre-dawn wakefulness brought on by the availability of streaming episodes of Dexter, the repeated rediscovery of StumbleUpon or the relative lack of gore posted on Spaceghetto, higher than anticipated occurrences of bears, unanticipated adverse results or effects related to the use of the “sexy shorts”, unplanned inclusions of unfamiliar coffee sweeteners, breakfast shortages, lace knottages, wormholes, disagreements about the benefits of prolonged physical activity, Rachel Ray, loss of wallet, keys or cell phone charge, increases in mortgage, gas, credit, food, utility, childcare, entertainment or unicorn disposal costs, the outcome of Patrick Delaney’s evaluation of strategic alternatives, including the possible retirement of Patrick Delaney, as considered on August 3, 2010, shortly after lunch, and other factors which may be outside of Patrick Delaney’s control, including those factors discussed on occasion in Patrick Delaney’s blog, begun on  Jan. 6, 2007, and in Patrick Delaney’s other rantings made hereafter from time to time with friends, family, a goat, and co-workers. Should one or more of these risks or uncertainties materialize, or should underlying assumptions prove incorrect, actual results or outcomes may vary materially from those described as “I”, “might”, “go”, “for”, “a”, “jog”, or “tomorrow”. Subsequent written and oral forward-looking statements attributable to Patrick Delaney or persons, memes, or non-corporeal entities acting on his behalf are expressly qualified in their entirety by the cautionary statements in this paragraph.  Patrick Delaney undertakes no obligation to publicly update or revise any forward-looking statements, whether as a result of new information, reappearance of things once thought lost, future events, alternative future events, retroactive continuities, the rise of Atlantis, the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon, the return of Firefly or otherwise after the date of this communication.

Beverage through the nose in 3…2…

First, read this book title:

Now, read it in Christopher Walken’s voice.

Off to market…

I’ve waited long enough. For years, I’ve been sitting on a product idea that has the potential to bring me ridiculous amounts of money, and moderate amounts of fame, which will in turn bring me ridiculous amounts of money. The only thing holding me back was my fear that the name of my product would be made fun of.

Then I saw a commercial for AcipHex.

If you’re struggling with the pronunciation, let me clear it up for you. It’s not “A Sip Hex”. It’s not “A Seef Ex”. It’s Ass Effects.

Ass. Effects. This product name endured the full gauntlet of consumer test marketing and product name recognition effectiveness and came out the other side smelling like, well….

So I’m going ahead with my revolutionary tubed construction adhesive/sealant application control device: the Caulk Blocker.

Bad timing, Jimmy.

You should read it. It’s infectious.You’ll want to give it to a friend. And other related puns.


It takes a village. Of idiots.

Two National Grid maintenance vehicles have been parked on the highway, directly in front of my house, for the last half an hour. Between the two vehicles, the crew of three men have been (and continue to do) the best job I have thus seen of stabilizing the guardrail by holding it down with the weight of their collective asses.

Overseeing the safety of these fine gentlemen are 8 orange construction cones and one orange overpaid police officer. I think the police officer is the one that slightly taller than the others. It’s hard to tell, none of them are moving.

Goddammit I’m gonna come home to two tractor trailers jack-knifed in my front yard, aren’t I? Frak.

I think I have a heckler

A year ago I posted a story about performing my own brake job. In August, someone read it and decided to take me to task for my slapdash approach and attitude toward the upkeep of my 1992 Toyota Deathmachine. I commented back. Today, the aforenotyetmentioned Lazaro Valdes (his name, not mine) commented back-back. 

Since I quickly found that my comment back-back-back was becoming larger than most of my normal posts, and since I haven’t graced (cursed, whatever) you all with a new aforekindamentioned post in months, I’m posting my response here. Enjoy. Or cringe in horror.


Dear Sir or Madam,

You make several good points, the first of which is not your inability to simply cut and paste quotes from my original post instead of attempting to retype them. Poorly. It is obvious that you’re lazy, computer illiterate, over 62, Irish Catholic, a Whig, a former Postal employee, you like Shredded Wheat biscuits – the kind that come individually wrapped and you have to break them apart yourself, you own two and a half cats but secretly want a ferret,  have the beginnings of IBS, voted in 2 of the last 3 elections and you once sent money to Sally Struthers but have ever since harbored doubts that those starving children ever saw a dime of it. Please don’t argue. It’s obvious. It’s all right there in #000000 and #FFFFFF. If God hadn’t intended for us to make gross, snap generalizations about one another, he would not have created AL Gore so that he could create the Internet.

Still, I feel like I should defend myself on a few points. You were right about my girlfriend, and as soon as I acquire the necessary 1.21 gigawatts of electricity I need I will return to 1992 and lecture her adnauseum on the wisdom of having expensive engine problems only after a cheap and easy solution has been invented. 

You are wrong about the bleeder valves. They are rusted because there is too much salt on the roads up here in the winter. This is entirely outside my area of responsibility. I did try to blame Toyota, the manufacturer of my car, but they just claimed that they were only building the cars the way that the manual said to build the cars, and that the kid who worked where they bought the manual claimed that even a dog with oposable thumbs could build the car. (I checked, and they have a plant in Alabama where the canine unemployment rate is only 1.2. One point freakin’ two! My dog got laid off last month. How fair is that?) I finally told them, quite sternly, that building cars in this country isn’t a right, it’s a privilege, and that maybe they should build buses. They were speechless. Or I assume they were. I’d hung up by then. But there was still the problem of my bleeder valves, being viciously corroded by road salt. So, in keeping with the preachings of the day, and having failed in thinking globally, I acted locally. I got a bazooka and have been blowing up every snow plow with a road salt spreader that’s come around the bend in the road in the last week. Don’t think this was easy. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a bazooka since G.I. Joe went off the air? (And what was up with him and Alpine anyway? I think they’d like the aughties. They could live openly. Well, in Massachusetts. ) It’s ridiculous. Everyone’s all about the Kalashnikov now. But you just can’t beat the stopping power of a good old tube launched, optical wire guided missile.

And you talk about “responsible” as if it was something I should be.  Everyone knows that “responsible” is something that you’re terrified of not being. That’s what laws are for – to take everyday things make you terrified that you’re not doing them. Or not doing them right. If the Commonwealth of Massachusetts deemed it necessary for me to be terrified about the responsible upkeep of my car more than once a year then I’m sure that they’d require that I have it inspected more often than every July. And they would certainly send out someone to glower at me menacingly in the meantime. See, the current return on responsible vehicle maintenance is somewhere around .1%, and that’s just if you include the postcards from the manufacturer reminding you of the latest recall (“Your vehicle has a car on it’s frame that may explode if fired upon by a bazooka. Failure to address this may result in fire, wreckage and loss of appetite.”) I’ve got eight boxes not stuffed full of letters from all the people who wrote to thank me for changing my oil every 3000 miles. Two of them aren’t from Midas.