PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

Welcome! Please take off your shoes.  I want you to be comfortable while visiting my website, and I think you would be more comfortable if you weren't tracking dirt around. You may be asking yourself, how did I end up here, and how do I leave? Please, stay for a moment, I beg you. Read more

I Don't Know Everything: More Evidence

 

The sound of water, which just moments ago had been sitting in a toilet in someone else’s unit above, cascading down a pipe in the middle of your living room is, it seems to me, something wondrous. Which is to say it makes me wonder:

  • About what is passing just feet from where I stand;
  • About who the person is who just sent his/her waste down a tube through the condo I am renting;
  • About toilets in general, and who invented septic systems. Can we just assume it was Mr. Septic and be done with it?

OK, fine, I'll consult textbooks covering the history of septic and get back to all you banks of computers in China.

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Boston Considers Banning Hazmat Costumes

 

This is not an actual newspaper headline, but it will be when I’m mayor. You laugh and think, “Mayor? Yeah, right! Dude, you’re gonna be freakin’ President.”

What, you think I don’t know that? For crying out loud I’m reading the same voter data tables you are! (And isn’t it a great country where you can get voter data tables delivered every morning with your eggs? Try that in China.)

The truth is this: after my stint as President of the United States of America, I’m going to continue my extraordinary run in public service in smaller ways, such as by running a medium-sized US city. This will keep me in the news and allow me to express my dismay for Halloween costumes that exceed the frontiers of good taste and/or put the public’s safety at risk.

Wondering if it’s too late to announce my candidacy for Governor of Massachusetts under the Stop Ebola Now Party.

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Pat's Disaster Saison

 

All great beers need a catchy name to be heard above the chatter. That’s what they teach in beer marketing school. Or so I’m told. I don’t know because I’ve never taken a beer marketing class.

Surprised? The truth is I don’t have any of those advanced beer-marketing degrees that people are getting online these days. Just because I keep  a miniscule supply of my beer doesn’t mean I’ve been taught to create demand. The truth is I’m hoarding my beer. Also, I suspect people won’t actually like my brews, which is why I’ve been giving them names like “One” and “Two” and “Three”, and so forth. Who wants to drink a “Three” when they could wait in line at a Vermont beer outlet to buy a single Heady Topper? And so my very limited supply is ironically not in demand at all.

A good thing, because my latest effort, a farmhouse Saison, is an ale meant to be packed with flavor, but is actually rather light and airy, the result of a series of brewing blunders that essentially failed to extract fermentables from the steeping grains. Oh, I could go on, but the fact is that despite my considerable wisdom and brewing experience (hey, I’ve been doing this since 2013!), I’ve produced what may be the most insipid Saison ever.

Which is why I’ve decided to rebrand it “Disaster Pat’s Insipid Ale.” Interested in trying one? Of course not. Not when you can wait in a mile-long line in Vermont for a Heady Topper. (Limit: one per customer.)

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Don't Sit Here

 

 

In my next life, I’d like to come back as a dog owned by one of those people who will allow me to pee on virtually any object that protrudes vertically from the ground. Signposts: check. Newly planted rose bushes: check. Slow-moving old people: check.  

The world is filled vertical protrusions, each of which is looked upon by dogs as a toilet where they can leave their scent for other dogs to sniff, as well as little puddles for my children to drop their backpacks into while waiting for the school bus.

With any luck, I’ll be adopted by the sort of woman I encountered last week, who watched in stony silence as her giant pooch urinated on a park bench along the famed Muddy River. This wasn’t a little Pomeranian piddling on the bench legs, but rather an extremely large breed of canine that squirted on the bench seat itself, where actual humans occasionally plant their behinds while eating a ham sandwich.

As I pedaled by on my bike and witnessed the indiscreet canine act, I tried to think positively and identify a lesson learned. It was this: that our fellow humans are often thoughtless boors, and better to picnic on a blanket than on a park bench.

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