Wd 40 Quotes

God, do they make WD-40 for flirting? Because I am rusty.

I'm not working class anymore,' he said. 'I'm lower-middle. I use three types of oil in my kitchen. Admittedly one of them is WD-40, but that counts, doesn't it?

For me, stories are like WD-40 for the brain: they keep all the wheels and gears and clicky-things running smoothly. Without them, cognitive function becomes a bore.

She married him two years ago for love, or so she thought, and he's a good enough man but a devotee of household silence. His idea of marriage is to spray WD-40 on anything that squeaks. ... The quiet only subsides when Harland sleeps and his tonsils make up for lost time.

The Sweets rarely set foot on the avenues. They'd always lived on the street-side of town, where duct tape held everything together and WD-40 stopped the squeaks.

If it moves but shouldn’t: Duct tape. If it doesn’t move but should: WD-40. These two items cover all of your needs. Everything else in science is secondary.

She talked about getting some Pam cooking spray—or WD-40, but Pam was cheaper—because coating the walls of the toilet chutes with it makes waste less likely to stick.

I want to see how your mind works.” “Slowly, and with WD-40.

The right books are like crowbars for our imaginations. When we find ourselves stuck at some place in life, the right book can pry open our inner idea banks. You know those moments: life has become so routine you could do it in your sleep-in fact, you wish you could. You need a change, but you're not sure if it calls for a career switch, a life overhaul, or just a new hairstyle. During these seasons, the right book challenges you to think differently, to see life in a new light, to bring resolution to a problem, or make a life-changing decision. Books can propel you out of life's occasional ruts. Through their mind-expanding, heart swelling, pulse-quickening words and ideas, books become like WD-40 for our brains

Small talk is the WD-40 of society. It has a purpose, perhaps many purposes. A few niceties with a sales clerk, a little joshing with your dentist’s receptionist, some light get-to-know-ya banter with a stranger at a party—it keeps the gears of society cranking smoothly, makes the world feel friendly, and protects our social muscles from atrophy.

Atlas There is a kind of love callend maintenance, Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it; Which checks the insurance, and doesn't forget The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs; Which answers letters; which knows the way The money goes; which deals with dentists And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains, And postcards to the lonely; which upholds The permanently rickety elaborate Structures of living; which is Atlas. And maintenance is the sensible side of love, Which knows what time and weather are doing To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring; Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps My suspect edifice upright in air, As Atlas did the sky.

He had his workshop out back in a separate two-car garage, and spent more time in there than in the house, if you didn’t count sleeping. He was a relentless putterer, always looking for something to fix or tear down and do all over again. A door or cupboard hinge never had a chance to squeak twice. Dad practically carried a can of WD-40 with him at all times. A stuck window, a dripping tap, a running toilet, a jiggly doorknob—none of them stood a chance in our house. Dad always knew exactly what tool he needed, and could have strolled into his garage blindfolded to lay his hands on it.

One only needs two tools in life: WD-40 to make things go, and duct tape to make them stop. G. Weilacher

His blood type is WD-40. He lets cops off with warnings. When he donates blood, he uses a handgun and a bucket.

Henny started to check things over—cables, speedometer, tire pressure, mirror adjustment—and then he sprayed the chain with WD40. He always does this, even if he’s going two blocks to the grocery. “Almost ready,” he said, when I thought he was all done. “I’m going to fill the water bottle and throw a bag of dried fruit into the seat pack.” Then he made one more trip for a bandage, just in case. When we finally got going, it was the hottest part of the day. I didn’t want to know how hot it was, but I knew Henny was going to tell me. “Did you check the thermometer?” he called up to me at the first intersection. “A hundred and five in the shade. It’s hot enough to uncurl your hair. We’ll die of heat exhaustion out here on the high-way. Can’t we go in something air-conditioned?” Henny never does anything without a few complaints. He has terrible things to say about trumpet lessons but he likes to play the trumpet. And then there are book reports. Henny reads the long, nonfiction books, the Yellow Pages, everything. Just don’t ask him to write up a report, because he will complain about it forever, and then turn in thirty pages.

You only need two tools in life — WD-40 and duct tape. If it doesn’t move and should, use the WD-40. If it shouldn’t move and does, use the duct tape.

I had seen the strong chemical smelling urine before. It had occurred during researching the chapter “Body Voltage” in the book “Toxic Health”. You will find this statement in that chapter: “When applying a DC voltage between the foot and the wrist, a reaction occurred in my urine. It started to smell like a strong chemical, similar to WD-40”. I do believe the amino acids and creatine were creating the same DC voltage effect within the human body and triggered the same reaction.

Yet soft, tactical lies, so-called white lies—is it okay to call them white or is that now racist?—are the social WD-40 of day-to-day life, greasing all the tiny connections, keeping things frictionless.

Running is WD-40 for the mind

Take someone like the chemist who invented the lubricant spray WD-40. The full name of WD-40 is “Water Displacement, 40th Formula.” It was called that in the chemist’s lab book because his previous thirty-nine versions of the formula failed. He learned from each one of those failures and nailed it on the fortieth try.

The infamous “curse” her cousin referred to—also known as the WD-40 Effect—was a bit of an inside family joke.

The Sweets rarely set foot on the avenues. They'd always lived on the street-side of town, where duct tape held everything together and WD-40 stopped the squeaks.

any human has ever manufactured. When you decide to WD-40 your na’at, you need a lot of room and a lot of newspapers to soak up the excess oil. You should also open a window before

Running is WD-40 for the mind.

I’ll have to get Malcolm to put some WD40 on

Everything was in order, although coated in dust, cobwebs and what looked like an entire village of dead bugs. A pegboard held his saws, chisels, hammers, vises and screwdrivers. He’d used old wooden cigar boxes with tiny knobs screwed to each to construct drawers for a homemade cubby holding a wide assortment of nails, screws, bolts and washers. The power tools were neatly arranged on the wooden shelves beside the bench. An old nail barrel held scraps of lumber. She inhaled deeply. The shed smelled of cigar smoke, WD-40 and sawdust. It smelled like Papi.