I need more tools
I need more tools.
No, I don't. But I WANT more tools.
I like them. I covet them. I love having them sooo much.
And sometimes
I even use the ones I have,
When I can find them.
They're all in the garage,
Somewhere.
Somewhere inconvenient.
Spread evenly, in fact, between several inconvenient, impossible to find locations.
Where I put them hastily thinking I would find them again.
But they're in the garage, somewhere, I swear.
There's a lot of other stuff in the garage.
So much that there is no room to actually park a car.
But just knowing that out there, somewhere, in MY garage,
I have TOOLS
Puts hair on my chest, chisels my jaw, and drops my voice at least an octave.
I need toolboxes.
No, I don't. I have several, just not the ones I WANT.
I want those big, shiny mechanics' chests with drawers and slots and wheels and locks.
I just have cheap ones, and small ones, and broken ones.
They know I hate them,
So they always beat me at their maddening shell game.
Whichever one I look in first, for that wrench or ratchet or pair of pliers,
That one extra-long 3/8 inch hex socket that fits on the quarter-inch ratchet that is the ONLY TOOL I can use to turn the nut to restart the oil-burning furnace in the middle of winter when it's twenty below and the oil tank has run dry because I forgot to call the oil company and schedule a refill... Again.
Whatever it is I'm looking for, the thing is always in the other one.
No, not THAT other one - the OTHER other one. No, not in that one either.
What, oh wait. It was in the FIRST one - I swear it was not there a minute ago.
I looked. I dumped the whole thing out and put it all back, well most of it got back in there anyway, and now there it is right on top.
There's no way I could have missed it.
It's a toolbox conspiracy.
They're daring me to replace them.
But I'd rather have new tools.
Oh, those tools!
If there's one thing that makes this bloated sissy computer geek think he's Charles Freaking Bronson, it's owning an 18-volt cordless drill with a keyless chuck and a battery bigger than my own fist.
Sure, a little tack hammer could have tapped a little brad nail to hang that picture frame in the hall, but I've got a DRILL!
Oh, the things I can do with this variable speed powerhouse and a half dozen drywall screws clenched between my teeth!
If only my wife,
my lovely wife,
was more content with the series of gaping test holes to the left
and to the right of the frame.
As if finding the studs is easy.
You know they make a tool for that too, dear...
As if she could do better,
Just because she knows where to find the little tack hammer.
I put a router on my Christmas wish list.
A router!
Me,
As if I have any idea how to... rout...???
Or any reason to actually do so.
I am no woodworker.
I can't tell maple from cherry from walnut.
MAYBE I could recognize a cheap piece of pine,
If the needles and pine cones were still attached to it.
Without a router, though... could it be that my manhood is incomplete?
What good am I without a planer, or a scroll saw, or a three-bubble laser level?
I want a weed whacker, and a saws-all, and an eight-hundred-dollar snowblower with chains on the tires.
Sure, I only have a 15 foot driveway, but still...
How will a plastic snow shovel make me feel like a man this winter?
While there is still a square inch of free space on any shelf, in any drawer of any box in that garage of mine, there will be a need,
That osmotic pressure,
Fueled by testosterone
And pride
And the occasional Zima
To fill it
Completely
With tools.
No, I don't. But I WANT more tools.
I like them. I covet them. I love having them sooo much.
And sometimes
I even use the ones I have,
When I can find them.
They're all in the garage,
Somewhere.
Somewhere inconvenient.
Spread evenly, in fact, between several inconvenient, impossible to find locations.
Where I put them hastily thinking I would find them again.
But they're in the garage, somewhere, I swear.
There's a lot of other stuff in the garage.
So much that there is no room to actually park a car.
But just knowing that out there, somewhere, in MY garage,
I have TOOLS
Puts hair on my chest, chisels my jaw, and drops my voice at least an octave.
I need toolboxes.
No, I don't. I have several, just not the ones I WANT.
I want those big, shiny mechanics' chests with drawers and slots and wheels and locks.
I just have cheap ones, and small ones, and broken ones.
They know I hate them,
So they always beat me at their maddening shell game.
Whichever one I look in first, for that wrench or ratchet or pair of pliers,
That one extra-long 3/8 inch hex socket that fits on the quarter-inch ratchet that is the ONLY TOOL I can use to turn the nut to restart the oil-burning furnace in the middle of winter when it's twenty below and the oil tank has run dry because I forgot to call the oil company and schedule a refill... Again.
Whatever it is I'm looking for, the thing is always in the other one.
No, not THAT other one - the OTHER other one. No, not in that one either.
What, oh wait. It was in the FIRST one - I swear it was not there a minute ago.
I looked. I dumped the whole thing out and put it all back, well most of it got back in there anyway, and now there it is right on top.
There's no way I could have missed it.
It's a toolbox conspiracy.
They're daring me to replace them.
But I'd rather have new tools.
Oh, those tools!
If there's one thing that makes this bloated sissy computer geek think he's Charles Freaking Bronson, it's owning an 18-volt cordless drill with a keyless chuck and a battery bigger than my own fist.
Sure, a little tack hammer could have tapped a little brad nail to hang that picture frame in the hall, but I've got a DRILL!
Oh, the things I can do with this variable speed powerhouse and a half dozen drywall screws clenched between my teeth!
If only my wife,
my lovely wife,
was more content with the series of gaping test holes to the left
and to the right of the frame.
As if finding the studs is easy.
You know they make a tool for that too, dear...
As if she could do better,
Just because she knows where to find the little tack hammer.
I put a router on my Christmas wish list.
A router!
Me,
As if I have any idea how to... rout...???
Or any reason to actually do so.
I am no woodworker.
I can't tell maple from cherry from walnut.
MAYBE I could recognize a cheap piece of pine,
If the needles and pine cones were still attached to it.
Without a router, though... could it be that my manhood is incomplete?
What good am I without a planer, or a scroll saw, or a three-bubble laser level?
I want a weed whacker, and a saws-all, and an eight-hundred-dollar snowblower with chains on the tires.
Sure, I only have a 15 foot driveway, but still...
How will a plastic snow shovel make me feel like a man this winter?
While there is still a square inch of free space on any shelf, in any drawer of any box in that garage of mine, there will be a need,
That osmotic pressure,
Fueled by testosterone
And pride
And the occasional Zima
To fill it
Completely
With tools.
posted by Christopher at 11:22 PM
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Add your own sock.
