That’s it, be the adjustable clicker torque wrench. Perfect. Now, breathe…
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This post….Lacks quality.
’s okay. Nobody’s reading it anyway.
Coincidentally, I just broke a ratchet yesterday, which I *call* a clicker wrench, by using it to repeatedly strike a small log lodged between blade and canopy of my lawn mower, when the ratchet wouldn’t work on the rusted bolt on the blade.
The clicky parts have flown out into the yard.
I think I can get a new screwdriver that I used to chisel out the log, but the ratchet was part of a set…. no way to cover this crime.
Your moment of zen brought to you by the enemy of tools.
For what it’s worth to you, I liked the post quite a lot.
And what is postmodern, Phaedrus, and what is not postmodern—need we ask anyone to tell us these things?
Don’t mind me, I’ll just sit here zazen.
Aaaooooouuuummmmmmm…..
Aaaooooouuuummmmmmm…..
…ya know, I can fix that for you with an empty beer can and some tin snips…
…in other news, Jesse Jackson bobblehead doll?
It was a reference to the book, damnit, the book! *sigh*
I AM the wrench. I still have a handle, but all the fiddley bits are swimming with the cutworms.
Yes.
Your problem, Sarah, is that you’re seeing yourself as being separate and distinct from the wrench. Actually, little clicky bits of you are strewn all over the yard. Which is you. Or something.
And yet, still no allusion to grasshoppers.
My motorcycle needs a starter.
Just thought I’d spice this thread up a little . . . well, Ok, a lot.