I have no doubt, WD40, that whatever is in you will eventually kill us all. And yet I use you all the time, in almost every instance possible.
Like today, when my wife wanted the outdoor hose spigot removed and, realizing the likelihood of me taking the initiative, headed out the door with a flash of pique and a completely inappropriate wrench, I went straight to you. I knew the spigot, painted decades ago the same color as the house, and merely thinking of trying to crack its seal without you made my back ache, my soul wilt. You were the only thing in the house with the potential to save me, and you worked, by God, making me look like a genius and a hero. You surprise and delight me every time.
By the way, what’s up with your nozzle? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten through even half of you before the sprayer gets clogged and I have to buy another can. Perhaps this is your manufacturer’s shrewdness at work. Why bother to fix it if they keep coming back? Good point, and I will.
The other day, when I found the slide-out mechanism of my hand truck uncooperative, I almost squealed with the opportunity to use you. It was an easy one, mere incidental contact with your magical formula making those rusty pieces slick and giving. That hand truck was back to new before I got the first whiff of your enveloping metallic scent. Better than new.
Still, I wonder what the price is for all this cheap, seemingly miracle-working lubrication. I can’t believe it’s only the $2.99 your bar code summons from the express lane check-out at Home Depot. (That price is an insult, by the way. Yours is the power greater men have sold their souls for.) There’s something more going on here, something someone’s grandchild is going to pay dearly for. Know, future chemically-impinged reader, at least your malady brought me untold joy, which might make it seem a little less pointless.
A conscientious citizen might blow the whistle on you, Dub-D, but I never will. Abiding is for lessor formulas. You make life too easy, too viscous. You will always be my devilish secret, my hubby’s little helper, my eco-sin. Others have plastic grocery bags, I have you.