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Stats & Data

July 12, 2008


Everything Broke This Week

Jim McPartland



I’m in the middle of writing two other blogs that I wanted to finish first. One on a drug raid in Easton, CT that went south. The other to announce the blog writing contest winner. I’m hoping to have that one done tonight, 7/12, but no later than tomorrow night.  Thank you for your patience. Please understand there were SO many good ones—and the # of entries was more than I anticipated- it’s talking a little longer than I’d like. Although reading each one- some multiple times- has been a pleasure.

That being said, now I have to vent.

The house and its contents seem to being coming apart at the, well, seams- all at once. I’m starting to think it’s an Indian curse, because Indians were here and I’m sure some of their bones were disturbed when my septic system was put in when the house was built 12 years ago, has risen it’s ugly head. It seems to come in spurts- life is good and then—whammo—the dead Injuns decide it’s time to wreak havoc with my stuff and fragile emotions. As I’ve told you before, I’m clueless when it comes to fixing anything. At least I have this totally cool fix-it guy John who’ll come to my house and look at anything- doesn’t even charge me if he can’t fix it. How nice is that?

Last weekend it starts with an infestation of yellow jackets. I guess that doesn’t fall into the ‘broke’ category, but it sucks none-the-less. And the fucking Mohegan Spirits I’m sure are the cause, much like a plague predicted in Revelations.

I got attacked by 6 of them as I was flipping burgers. Yellow jackets are not the nice Jerry Seinfeld “Bee Movie’ honey bees who go about their business pollinating plants, making honey, and fucking the queen. Oh no. These things are vicious and very territorial. I know they just set up shop where they’re comfortable. But in every corner eave of my house where the wasp spray can’t reach because they’re higher than 22 feet is not good. It’s almost like the bastards know the spray from the Wasp killer can only goes so far and they have the original schematic of my house to build two feet higher.

This particular hive was actually under the grille. I thought they were somewhere else, but nope- right by the Spork. When I tried to ‘shoo’ one away, three others attacked me from behind. They were like the Taliban. I’m flaying my arms, grab a beach towel that was drying and swing that around, but two of the motherfuckers stung me anyway. I don’t think these are the kind that dies after they sting, because I swear I saw one smoking a cigar an hour later. With this ‘You want some more?’ look on its face. I ended up getting the nest and now they’re dead on the deck, just like bombing a terrorist hideout.

Wednesday, I was vacuuming. As I move the pine coffee table that’s my foot rest for movie and Cardinal games for years, the leg gives out and almost takes a couple toes. I look at it and know no amount of Elmer’s is salvaging that puppy. I left it in its crippled form so my wife would see I didn’t throw a tantrum and do it myself. It now rests in peace on the side of my house, waiting for next year’s bulk garbage collection along with the table umbrella that got killed in a recent thunderstorm. I’d axe the stupid thing for firewood, but I know it’d win and I’d lose a thumb.

I then go to toast some bread and the goddamn toaster oven isn’t working. The knob even breaks off, like it’s saying ‘I’m dead and decomposing right before your eyes’. Smart ass toasters. Thing’s only a year old too. Every toaster oven we’ve had only last a year. Brand- Black and Decker, Sunbeam, Tommy Hilfiger- doesn’t matter. Built in obsolescence kills me.

The Indians were not quite done with me yet.

Thursday night after I finished the Ramsey story- at about 11:30 PM, I’m finally hungry. I go to pop the dish of pasta in the microwave to eat and—no, please, no--- no light—no clock- no fucking anything. The microwave is connected to the oven below it. Fucking cold spaghetti it was (I was in no mood to actually use the stove).

I called John Friday morning to ask if he could look at the unit. It’d done something a couple years ago he did fix, but we realized at the time if the microwave goes, you have to replace the entire unit for at least $1500. Problem is Westinghouse surely knows the microwave will go way before the oven but they want you to buy another dual set. Bastards. I know there’s some Jap designer in Tokyo that’s laughing right now. Along with dead Indians. God!!!

Sure enough, the unit’s shot.

Then I remember the ceiling fan in the family room (above where dead footrest was) got fucked up by balloons getting in it a week ago. Balloons and fans- a deadly combo.

I ask John if he could sneak a peek at that seeing as I’m crying over the microwave and figure if we go .500, at least I won’t feel like I’m the KC Royals, constantly looking up from the 6 foot hole I’ve dug for myself (where the table and umbrella lie too- it’s getting crowed! If the fucking wasps build a hive with me there, cash in the chips and hand me the gun).

John takes it apart. That’s shot too.

It’s now Saturday. Nothing has broken yet. Except I’m out of printer ink (that’s another blog- remind me).

Think I’ll spend some time backing up my computer, because if I ever lose all my documents I’m dead.


What’s that sound—why can’t I read the screen anymore??—oh no the dreaded RED X windows warning—this isn’t gonna—cras----