PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

My Musings

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Let's Cut To The Chase

It seems like just yesterday – ok, maybe two or three days ago – that the Red Sox were disencumbering the 2004 Yankees of yet more American League Championship hardware by winning the final four games of that seven-game series to cap the most excruciating and scintillating era of sports in my lifetime. The series included Dave Roberts' stolen base and tying run, an 11-inning game, a 14-inning game, a bloody sock, and the absolute pummeling of the despised (by me) Yanks in the Bronx. My life was changed forever!

Prior to that moment, everything was shit. I had nothing to live for. Sure, I had a wife who loved me (well, liked me – I think) and a dog who loved me as well (well, appreciated that I fed her), a house, a good job, and bike. But I also had one hell of an attitude and clothing that fit poorly.

When the Sox finally won a World Series after 86 years of frustration, avenues of hope opened for me. I became the head of a large corporation and everyone, even my dog, became effusive with adoration. (You can fact check that; I'll give you some highly reliable sources.) People threw jobs at me for which I was completely unqualified. To show my appreciation I rose to the occasion, mostly by taking night classes. I became famous in the quiet sort of way that humble people like myself become famous, which is to say not terribly famous at all. Still, people looked at me differently. They said that I had a bounce in my step, which people had formerly misinterpreted as a limp. Ha, me, limp. Not a chance!

Anyway, today those same Red Sox (sort of) will be playing those same Yankees (kind of, ish,) to determine who has the right to lose to the Rays in the divisional series. (Why does the world have to have Rays anyway!). A one-game long series in which you win or go home. No six-game lead-up to the final chapter or any of that other nonsense!

I'll be watching. Will you? 

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President McVay

I’m aware from the chatta on many of the social media channels I tune into that the American people want a list of my priorities in case I were ever to become President of the United States. Also, how much time would I take off from the job for leisure activities or hobbies?

Would I get into macrame, for example? Or perhaps be a kegler?

Look, it’s really not safe for me to be bowling in my spare time. First, it’s indoors, so not great COVID-wise. Second, think of the security cost. They’d have to shut down the whole facility to protect me from my enemies.

And anyway, can you imagine if there is international crisis brewing and I’m spending time rolling balls down alleys?

Here is where I confess that, nevertheless, I’m inclined to continue brewing beer in my spare time. Because although American needs to get back to work, America needs a beer worse. So, in effect, I’m leading America by example: working hard, and drinking the beer I’ve spent time brewing right there in the White House.

In addition, I plan to create a social media app called “Chatta.” Stay tuned on that one.   

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Noisy

You’d think that in this era of fan-free sporting events, I’d finally be able to hear the game announcers consistently.

In pre-COVID days, when fans could cram into arenas and drink beer until they couldn’t participate in a standing ovation, there were times when the ambient noise from the rowdy hometown partisans was more than able sound technicians could eliminate, such that hearing the play-by-play and color commentary was confounding for people who had listened to too much loud music as young drummers (not me). But it didn’t happen often, and when it did it was with actual full houses.

These crazy days stadiums and arenas are sparsely populated with fans, if populated at all. So to give the impression of impassioned fans possibly unable to stand for an ovation due to beer drinking, tipsy crowd noise is piped in, and I can’t hear the announcers again.

I’d ask if it’s just me and my bad hearing or if everyone is experiencing this annoying trend, but to be honest I’m afraid of the answer.

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Super Bowl Saturday

Why is it that every Super Bowl has to be played on a Sunday?

How do you think that makes other days of the week feel? Mondays and Tuesdays must be crushed! Knowing that they have no chance, which just kills them.

Wednesdays figure, well, given their status as “hump days,” Roger Goodell might at some point get a soft spot for Wednesday, that ol’ galoot, and have Super Bowls staged right in the middle of the work week (no chance).

Thursdays figure, come on! There is a Thursday night game virtually every week. Let’s go all-in and have a Thursday Super Bowl.

Fridays say: Two days to recover = the most sensible plan off all.

Saturdays say: Best to have a full day to prep. Can’t do that while we’re at work, now can we, Mr Big Shot Friday?

My personal gripe with Super Sunday: tired Monday.

Not that I’ll be watching.

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Daily Haiku

 

Cats oft’ void their guts.

They cough out fur balls. They puke.  

We tread carefully.  

 

College Tuition

We dig ourselves a deep hole

Need a second job.

 

Now that I’m sixty

People think I’m a wise man

Probably, I’m not

 

I’m in my Fifties

But tomorrow I’m Sixty

Will need a sports car

 

My PCP Says

“Keep doin’ what yer doin’”

Prob’ly I should not

 

It’s St. Patrick’s Day

We eat beef that has been corned

Whatever that means

 

Robots and A.I.

I will make use of these soon

To do my taxes

 

Strange Oscar night end

Pacino failed to mention

Best pic nominees

 

Who’s this Katie Britt?

Scary. Wierd. We could have used

A Trigger Warning

 

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