Robert Haas
Well-known member
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2010
- Messages
- 1,749
Hello, My Name is Robert and I abuse tools.
It goes back to my child hood when I started out with the small stuff, you know prying a part here and there with one of dads big screw drivers, then it sort of snow balled when I was out of his house and on my own with a smaller selection of tools, and would find myself forcing the small set of tools I had to perform unspeakable acts.
Years went by and I refused to acknowledge my problem and things escalated horribly, I was told by friends that I used drill motors as grinders and sanders, My own drill press was forced to act as a poor mans mill.
Extension added on to the handles of breaker bars distorted sockets into mangled blobs unrecognizable by anyone outside of the forensic science fields. Yet I refused to believe I had a problem, after all I was accomplishing miracles out in the shop with my "rewired" drop lights. No manufacturer suggestions applied to me, no design criteria would alter my path.
Decades into my debauchery had me welding broken tools back together, sometimes increasing the length or angle to enable my tortuous path further.
It all came to a head a few months ago when I was caught welding a scissor jack to the bottom of my workbench to gain that final inch of clearance I needed to slide my home made sheet metal shear into its new hiding place. My attention was focused so keenly at my sparky chore I did not notice the half dozen men walk into my shop and gather behind me. As I lifted the edge of my helmet to gaze at my mischievous creation they sprung upon me. They drug my kicking and screaming self out of the dungeon I call a shop out into the bright light of day.
I was tied to a chair and my so called friends performed a tool user intervention. They paraded out into the sun drenched drive way countless creations they had removed from the shop.
The 48" extension welded up out of over a dozen bent and broken 3/8" extensions.
My hundreds of heat bent end wrenches customized to reach all typed of hidden fasteners.
Boxes of broken sockets, chisels, hammers with out handles, handles with out hammers. The pile was large and ominous.
My Snap on dealer sat off to the side and openly wept.
My days of abuse had come to an end, with the help of dozens of mental health professionals and the best products from the nations pharmaceutical manufacturers they have cured me. I no longer have that maniacal laugh as I scream at my latest creation "Who's your daddy now huh?" The Oxy/acetylene cart no longer will need new wheels to replace the worn out ones every 6 months.
No, that is all behind me, I now sit happily on the porch here at Shady Acres and watch the flowers bloom in the garden, while I patiently file away this bit of metal I found into a key to the front gate, just need to find a couple more fingernail files and I shall make my escape.
It goes back to my child hood when I started out with the small stuff, you know prying a part here and there with one of dads big screw drivers, then it sort of snow balled when I was out of his house and on my own with a smaller selection of tools, and would find myself forcing the small set of tools I had to perform unspeakable acts.
Years went by and I refused to acknowledge my problem and things escalated horribly, I was told by friends that I used drill motors as grinders and sanders, My own drill press was forced to act as a poor mans mill.
Extension added on to the handles of breaker bars distorted sockets into mangled blobs unrecognizable by anyone outside of the forensic science fields. Yet I refused to believe I had a problem, after all I was accomplishing miracles out in the shop with my "rewired" drop lights. No manufacturer suggestions applied to me, no design criteria would alter my path.
Decades into my debauchery had me welding broken tools back together, sometimes increasing the length or angle to enable my tortuous path further.
It all came to a head a few months ago when I was caught welding a scissor jack to the bottom of my workbench to gain that final inch of clearance I needed to slide my home made sheet metal shear into its new hiding place. My attention was focused so keenly at my sparky chore I did not notice the half dozen men walk into my shop and gather behind me. As I lifted the edge of my helmet to gaze at my mischievous creation they sprung upon me. They drug my kicking and screaming self out of the dungeon I call a shop out into the bright light of day.
I was tied to a chair and my so called friends performed a tool user intervention. They paraded out into the sun drenched drive way countless creations they had removed from the shop.
The 48" extension welded up out of over a dozen bent and broken 3/8" extensions.
My hundreds of heat bent end wrenches customized to reach all typed of hidden fasteners.
Boxes of broken sockets, chisels, hammers with out handles, handles with out hammers. The pile was large and ominous.
My Snap on dealer sat off to the side and openly wept.
My days of abuse had come to an end, with the help of dozens of mental health professionals and the best products from the nations pharmaceutical manufacturers they have cured me. I no longer have that maniacal laugh as I scream at my latest creation "Who's your daddy now huh?" The Oxy/acetylene cart no longer will need new wheels to replace the worn out ones every 6 months.
No, that is all behind me, I now sit happily on the porch here at Shady Acres and watch the flowers bloom in the garden, while I patiently file away this bit of metal I found into a key to the front gate, just need to find a couple more fingernail files and I shall make my escape.
